Book 6: Of Snow and Stone and Wolves
by Soledad
Summary: 6th Boromir story. Chapter 11 is up. FINISHED! What else needs to be said? Finally, they are on their way to Moria.
1. Prelude: The Choice

Of Snow and Stone and Wolves  
by Soledad Cartwright  
  
Disclaimer:  
The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun. Only the Lady Aquiel belongs to me.  
  
Rating: PG - 13, for heavy angst stuff (in later chapters) and implied m/m interaction.  
  
Author's notes:  
This is Part 6 of my Boromir-storyline ''Fall Before Temptation''. Just a short prelude right now; I'll be trying the chaptering system next. If I can't manage it, I'll have to take the story offline and re-upload it again when it is finished.  
  
Yes, I know I said ''no Elvish speech in my stories'', and I still cannot do Elvish. But the hymn here is taken from The Fellowship of the Ring, where it was sung by Galadriel herself; so I thought her grandchildren might know it as well.  
  
Many thanks to all those wonderful people who have read and reviwed the former parts. It's you who keep me going, guys, so please stay with me!  
  
Special thanks to Moonfire for her gracious help with creating Elven ceremonies. I owe you one, sister!  
  
Dedication: Isabeau, this one is for you!  
  
Ah, and by the way: this is still *not* a slash story!!!  
  
  
OF SNOW AND STONE AND WOLVES  
by Soledad  
  
Prelude: The Choice  
  
From early childhood on I always woke shortly before dawn. Mayhap it came from my mother's custom of greeting the trees at sunrise - a custom she brought with from the Golden Wood where she had been raised among the Nandor and the Silvan folk. Mayhap tis a reminder from all those happy seasons I have spent with my grandparents in their hidden realm. I know not which reason weights stronger. I only know that when ever Legolas and his people visit our valley, I feel a slight pang of homesickness after the immortal trees and golden leaves of Lothlórien while listening to the slow, magical and sorrowful songs of them who are called the Tree Children.  
  
I stole away from my sleeping lover in hope that the nightmares would stay away from him while I watched Legolas and his escort dancing slowly and gracefully under the trees like silver shadows of young birches in their pale silk tunics, bare feet hardly even touching the frozen earth. Like white flames of Varda's crown shining on the night sky.  
  
We were but a few days before the autumn feast the Edain call *Eruhantalë* or thanksgiving (though this year it felt unusually late, even reaching into early winter) - the very feast when Wood-Elves perform an ancient and sacred invocation to ensure the peaceful sleep of trees and water and earth during winter - and our Silvan guests had been making preparations at every sunset and sunrise, ever since Legolas' return from his father's realm.  
  
I watched them, as they moved around their enchanted circle, pale faces glowing in the early twilight, framed by ceremonially braided auburn hair, an otherworldly light shining in their bright eyes, brighter than the white stars of Varda, and I finally understood why my father had fallen in love with the Prince of Mirkwood: he brought back a magical fire into Father's heart that was quenched by Mother's departure over the Sea.  
  
The fire of life itself, it is, that awakens the earth after a long, hard winter. The fire of Anor that calls forth the first green leaves the Prince had been named after. The fire of love that helps a broken heart to rebirth. Without this fire, my father would have faded away. Our whole valley would have faded and died after Mother had left. Without that inner light glowing softly on Legolas' serene face while he moved slowly, as if in a trance, listening to something only his kindred could hear: the joyful song of the trees, greeting the rising sun.  
  
After the dance, they, too, sung a lengthy hymn on their own tongue that not even our kindred understands any more. Then they simply stood, motionless, like young trees in the windstill air, watching the golden sunrise with wide-open eyes, eyes full of wonder and deep secrets and joy. Wonder and secrets and joy no-one save them can feel and understand any more - not even other Elves.  
  
I retreated into the guest house, not wanting to disturb their silent meditation. My lover was still sleeping, the hard lines of his fair face smoothened out in his once-again-peaceful dreams. I watched him sleep and contemplated the unexpected twist of fate that had brought us together.  
  
Never has it been my intention to fall in love with him. When I first caught sight of him, at my father's table in the great hall, after our return from a usual orc-hunt, I found him intriguing, for my sister had told me about his anger and pride and his hidden pain. And I wanted to ease his pain, for he touched something in me that had been dormant for a very, very long time.  
  
I had lain with male lovers before - nearly three thousand years are a long time, even for the children of Elrond who have the life span of the Eldar; and oft have I chosen to taste the short-lived but hot-burning passion of mortal Men, to the great distress of my father, who, I believe, had feared my final choice all my life.  
  
Yet for I have never truly loved before - as most Elves only can love once, and some of them never -, in my blissful ignorance I thought myself safe. And after learning of the choice and the fate of my beloved sister, fairest maiden of the Eldar ever since Lúthien Tinúviel walked on earth, I was even more certain that I would not fall into the same trap.  
  
For though I have not yet chosen between the Sea and Middle-earth, I always thought that my choice, should I chose to accept the Doom of Men, would be for our beloved land and our great works, not for one Man only. Little, indeed, had I known back then.  
  
Now I understand how foolish this belief of mine had been. I only seeked to touch passion once again - for it had been far too long since I shared my bed with a lover - and to lessen his longing for love and his very obvious pain; yet when I touched his soul in that first night, his despair and guilt and unfulfilled desire, I was lost for ever. Not even after he had hurt me badly, calling me a whore in his wounded pride and his anger, could I abandon him.  
  
My brother is worried about me, thinking he has me under some sort of spell, and to a certain extent tis even true. Yet it was not his strength or the fairness of his face that I have fallen in love with, though I *do* find him beautiful, in that rough and bitter way only a mortal Man can be. Tis the bittersweet aftertaste of loss, however, that makes him so precious for my heart - the knowledge that our short, fleeting moments of joy would inevitably pass, and he would never taste the same for me, even if he returned to me - which he shall not, and I know that and have accepted that -, for he is changing with every passing day, ageing and growing toward death, which is the fate of all Men.  
  
I watched his dreaming face, so peaceful and fair, yet still full of sorrow, even after I have chased the horrible nightmares of fire and darkness away with my songs and my love, and I knew with a terrible certainty that I would never see him again.  
  
Nor would he return to his shining city to defend it with his sword and blood and life as he always wanted to. For his heart had been darkened by the Shadow beyond my powers for healing - marked for death, and all my love could not lift that curse off him.  
  
He would die, soon, and I would never touch another lover. For my as-yet-untouched heart was now bound to him for ever, and there would never be room for another, no Man nor Elf.  
  
Nor would I bear to depart over the Sea and live on with the horrible grief of his loss that would, no doubt, follow his death. Not even in the Blessed Realm could such a grief be healed. I still am Elvish enough to be certain of that, no matter how strong the blood of mortal Men burns in my veins. Yet there is still *one* errand for me on Middle-earth to fulfill, one that could give me some purpose till my brother, the better part of my soul, chooses to depart.  
  
Boromir son and Heir of Denethor would never reach his home; and his one true love, Minas Tirith, the White Queen of the South, would lack a strong arm and a devoted heart to defend her fair walls. Yet I cannot let the hopes of my beloved fall into darkness. So as long as I am needed, I would stand behind Estel's throne, should he truly win his birthright back, serving him with my sword, my bow or my counsel, what ever he might ask me for. And still, though I *do* love him as a brother, and my sister would, hopefully, sit on his side, my service would not be for them, but for the city Boromir loved more than everything or everyone - more even than his own brother. When ever Minas Tirith should need me, I would rush to her aid.  
  
And then, should I not be needed any more, I would return to Imladris, and lay down my life, and die as a mortal Man. As the one I have given my heart would die, soon. Tis the bitter gift of Elrond's children, born of both sunlight and twilight, and I fully intend to use it. And I taste no bitterness in it at all. For it gives me great comfort to be able to share at least death with my beloved, when I could not have shared with him life.  
  
He stirred again in his sleep - a sure sign that his inner deamons were roaring again. I grabbed my harp from the corner I had left it the previous night and let my fingers glide along the silver strings, seeking for a proper song for this very special morrow - the one I have found my destiny, after so many years of doubt.  
  
Finally a hymn came to my mind, sung in the ancient tongue of our kindred beyond the Sea that was little known on Middle-earth, for it spoke of the eternal longing of our Kin for Valimar - akin to the longing I felt for a life here, that I could never have.  
  
Ai! Laurië lantar lassi súrinen,  
Yéni unótimë ve rámar aldaron!  
Yéni ve lintë yuldar avánier  
mi oromardi lisse-miruvóreva.  
Andúnë pella, Vardo tellumar  
nu luini yassen tintilar i eleni  
ómaryo airetári-lírinen.  
  
Sí man i yulma nin enquantuva?  
  
An sí Tintallë Varda Oilossëo  
ve fanyar máryat Elentári ortanë  
ar ilyë tier undulávë lumbulë  
ar sindanóriello caita mornië  
i falmalinnar imbe met, ar hísië  
untúpa Calciryo míri oialë.  
Sí vanwa ná, Rómello vanwa Valimar!  
  
Namárië! Nai hiruvalyë Valimar.  
Nai elyë hiruva. Namárië!  
  
/Ah! Like gold fall the leaves in the wind, long years numberless as the wings of trees! The long years have passed like swift draughts of the sweet mead in lofty halls beyond the West, beneath the blue vaults of Varda wherein the stars tremble in the song of her voice, holy and queenly. Who now shall refill the cup for me? For now the Kindler, Varda, the Queen of the Stars, from Mount Everwhite has uplifted her hands like clouds, and all paths have drowned deep in shadow; and out of a grey country darkness lies on the foaming waves between us, and mist covers the jewels of Calcirya for ever. Now lost, lost to those from the East is Valimar. Farewell! Maybe thou shalt find Valimar. Maybe even thou shalt find it. Farewell!/  
/The Lord of the Rings I., pp 490-491/  
  
  
End note: A little short, and with a different POV, I know. I felt like doing something different. The rest will be about leaving Rivendell and fighting the Caradhras, I promise. 


	2. Chapter 1: The Shielding Stone

Of Snow and Stone and Wolves  
by Soledad  
  
  
Disclaimer: still not mine, except of the Lady Aquiel, who shall *not* appear in this chapter.  
  
Rating: PG - 13, for heavy angst stuff (in later chapters) and implied m/m interaction.  
  
Author's notes:  
I want to thank all of you who reviewed the prelude - I was not completely sure how Elladan's POV would come through. He is an easy character to write, for not much is known about him; on the other hand, it is hard to write him *well*, even because anyone has a different concept of him.  
  
Now, since the scouts are finally back, the Fellowship of the Ring will be formed, and we shall learn the meaning of the title - or so I hope.  
  
  
CHAPTER ONE: THE SHIELDING STONE  
  
Boromir came awake slowly to the faint music of a harp and to the soft, gentle voice of his lover. He stretched under the thick blanket and smiled at Elladan who was sitting in a big chair across the room, his long, slender fingers gliding along the harp-sings, his beautiful face pale and strangely thoughtful.  
  
''You got up early'', he remarked as a sort of greeting. Elladan slowly nodded and gave him one of his slight half-smiles.  
  
''I went to watch the Silvan folk greeting the dawn. It brings back pleasant memories. My mother used to do that when we were children.'  
  
Boromir surpressed a sigh. The only thing he remembered of *his* mother was Finduilas' never-ending sadness and the slow, painful fading away of a once happy and lovely young woman. If the life in the court of his uncle, the Prince of Dol Amroth, was any clue, his mother must have been full of life once - and enjoying it.  
  
/Until she had met Father. It might be better if the Lady Éowyn would not want to wed a Man who had lost everything worth to offer her. A warrior princess of the Mark would fade away among the stone walls of our city just as well./  
  
''Do you have any messages for me from your father?'', he asked, shaking off these thoughts. The matter with Éowyn would have to wait. He needed to return home first - which would not be an easy return, for none of the Steward's family.  
  
Elladan shrugged.  
''There shall be another gathering, I heard. The Company of the Ring has to be chosen. In seven days, they must depart, or they would be caught by the winter.''  
  
''This year the winter shall be long and hard'', Boromir murmured, ''I can feel it in my bones. I, too, have to depart for Minas Tirith, soon. Hopefully, our self-exclaimed King would see the urgency, too. Otherwise I might leave without him.''  
  
Elladan sighed, withstanding the urge to roll his eyes. Sometimes he honestly asked himself why they put up with all these stubborn Men of Númenórean descent. For Aragorn was little better when he had one of his moods.  
  
''You ought to make your peace with Estel, soon... or else the two of you shall be at each other's troath all the way till Minas Tirith. And just whom would *that* serve?''  
  
''I shall not fight him'', Boromir said, ''as I already told you yester eve. If he wants to come to Minas Tirith with me, so be it. Better I get used to him while my father is not around to make things worse.''  
  
''Would he?'' Elladan asked in all earnesty.  
  
Boromir laughed mirthlessly. What a question!  
''Oh, he most certainly would. You call *me* stubborn and single-minded, for nothing as my city and her safety seems to be in my heart; you should hear my father who had done naught else for half a century... as did all his father's fathers before him. The Stewards of Gondor ruled well, Elladan. It is hard for us to step down. And who can promise us for certain that Arathorn son of Aragorn, in truth, *would* restore the land to its strength and glory of old times?''  
  
''No-one can'', Elladan agreed, ''and I do understand that it is hard to leave old, well-walked paths for new ones that only contain a promise. But I fear you shall not have any other choice. And sometimes a promise could do more than a whole army of strong Men with sharp weapons.''  
  
''In your waking dreams, mayhap'', Boromir sighed. ''Still, I shall be no hindrance for our King-to-be if it is his desire to defend our city. Yet if he tarries too much, I cannot wait for him. I have already wasted too much time here.''  
  
''You think so?'' Elladan did not flinch, but the hurt was clearly to see in his darkening eyes. Boromir reached out a hand to him.  
''Forgive me. That was not what I meant.''  
  
''Oh, I believe it was, indeed'', Elladan bit his lip, then he swallowed and fought back his calm. ''Never mind. I do understand your longing to return home. I would feel the same if Imladris were in great peril. I wish I could go with you, at least for a part of the way, but I fear Father would not approve. And I have tested his patience with my... indiscretions already hard enough.''  
  
''You are needed here just as much as I am needed home'', Boromir offered awkwardly. Elladan tilted his head on one side with a strange, bird-like jerk and lifted up one of his shoulders shortly.  
  
''Maybe, in a way. Now, you should get dressed and eat something ere you walk over to Father's house. I shall see you later.''  
  
* * * * * * * * * * *  
A short hour later, a small gathering was summoned to the same porch where the Council had been held almost a month earlier. The young hobbit, Frodo, was there, with his faithful man-servant and the two even younger ones of his small Kin whom Boromir still had a hard time to keep apart; then, of course, Mithrandir, crouching on a bench like an old, grey vulture, watching everyone with never-tiring, keen eyes, and the inevitable Heir of Isildur.  
  
Elrond greeted them all, then he looked gravely at Frodo.  
''The time has come'', he said. ''If the Rign is to sent out, it must go soon. But those who go with it must not count on their errand being aided by war or force.They must pass into the domain of the Enemy far from aid. Do you still hold to your word, Frodo, that you shall be the Ring-bearer?''  
  
The anguish was clearly shown on that small, vulnerable face, deep blue eyes wide with fear, but the young hobbit did not falter.  
''I do'', he said; then, reaching out to his servant for aid, he added: ''I will go with Sam.''  
  
''Then I cannot help you much, not even with counsel'', said Elrond, and Boromir felt like screaming again. The poor little guy was already scared to death, even without having been told how utterly helpless his whole errand was.  
  
Looking at that Elvish face again, Boromir was hard-pressed to believe that the hobbit was, indeed, about eleven years his senior and had faced the Nameless Fear and had been bodily harmed by it. He looked so much like a child - yet he was not. He was a grown person, who prepared to go into mortal danger, without help. Just how much bravery dwelt in that little heart?  
  
''I can foresee very little of your road'', Elrond continued; ''and how your task is to be achieved, I do not know. The Shadow has crept now to the feet of the Mountains, and draws nigh even to the borders of the Greyflood; and under the Shadow all is dark to me.''  
  
/Dark, indeed/, Boromir thought, withstanding the urge to double over with pain at these words. He had spent the night in peaceful sleep once again, thank to Elladan's songs, yet even now he could feel the darkness lingering just beyond the horizon, and he knew, once he left the valley, he would be unprotected. And that hateful fear he had never known before Osgiliath, took his heart in a tight, icy grip again.  
  
Yet it was not death itself he feared. To death he was used as all soldiers are, knowing that one day or another, they were to meet, inevitable.  
It was darkness that filled his heart with horror.  
Darkness that he would have to endure alone from now on.  
For the rest of his journey.  
For the rest of his life. How ever long or short it might be.  
  
''And I shall choose you companions to go with you, as far as they will or fortune allows'', Elrond was still speaking to the young hobbit. ''The number must be few, since your hope is in speed or secrecy. Had I a host of Elves in armor of the Elder Days, it would avail little, save to arouse the power of Mordor.''  
  
/And you have failed once already/, Boromir thought grimly. /It was isildur, a mortal Man, who cut the ring off the Black Hand, not one of your proud Elven Lords. You blame him for keeping the Ring, yet it was *him*, no-else who broke the strength of the Enemy, taking him the very source of his power./  
  
''The Company of the Ring shall be Nine'', Elrond announced; ''and the Nine Walkers shall be set against the Nine Riders that are evil. With you and your faithful servant Gandalf will go; for this shall be his great task, and maybe the end of his labours.''  
  
This seemed to delight Frodo greatly - so much, indeed, that Mithrandir rose from his bench and took off his hat and bowed. The others laughed; every one felt a little relieved.  
  
''For the rest, they shall represent the other Free Peoples of the World: Elves, Dwarves and Men'', Elrond closed his eyes for a moment as if he needed all his strength for the next announcement. ''For the Elves, Legolas, Prince of Mirkwood shall be'', he finally said in an even voice, not giving any sign of the pain and anguish he must have felt; ''And Gimli son of Glóin for the Dwarves. They are willing to go at least to the passes of the Mountains, and maybe beyond. For Men you shall have Aragorn son of Arathorn, for the Ring of Isildur concers him closely.''  
  
''Strider!'', cried Frodo joyously, and Sam looked more relieved than ever.  
  
''Yes'', the future King of Gondor said with a smile. ''I ask leave once again to be your companion, Frodo.''  
  
''I would have begged you to come'', said Frodo, ''only I thought you were going to Minas Tirith with Boromir.''  
  
''So did I'', Boromir commented in a low voice, audible only for the keen ears of an Elf - or a Ranger of the North.  
  
''I am'', said Aragorn and looked him straight in the eyes. ''And the Sword-that-was-Broken shall be reforged ere I set out to war. ''Then he turned back to the hobbit. ''But your road and our road lie together for many hundreds of miles. Therefore Boromir will also be in the Company. He is a valiant man.''  
  
This announcement as well as the unexpected compliment surprised Boromir greatly. Never would he expected them to trust him even near the Ring; not after his passionate plea in the Council to give it to Gondor as a weapon or to wield it against the Enemy. Yet as he looked into those clear grey eyes again, he understood that this was a peace offer from his soon-to-be King and accepted it with a simple nod.  
  
''There remain two more to be found'', said Elrond. ''There I shall consider. Of my household I may find some that it seems good to me to send.''  
  
With that, he looked directly of Boromir, who felt a strange warmth pooling around his own heart. Could it be that Elrond, in spite of Elladan's obvious doubts, would be ready to let his firstborn go with them? Having the strength, the wisdom and the healing powers of Elladan in the Company would, no doubt, be very helpful for both hobbits and Men.   
/Especially for *one* of the Men/, Boromir added as an afterthought, and a smile began to reach the corner of his mouth.  
  
Ere he could have said anything, though - and he certainly was not beyond begging in this matter -, the youngest hobbit, the one the others called 'Pippin', intervened.  
''But that will leave no place for us!'', he cried in dismay. ''We do not want to be left behind. We want to go with Frodo.''  
  
''That is because you do not understand and cannot imagine what lies ahead'', said Elrond, trying to keep things in his hand. He clearly did not like the idea of *four* hobbits walking off with the Ring.  
  
''Neither has Frodo'', said Mithrandir, unexpectedly supporting Pippin, and Boromir's heart sank for he knew how much the Lord of Imladris listened to the wizard's counsel. ''Nor do any of us see clearly. 'Tis true that if these hobbits understood the danger, they would not dare to go. But they would still wish to go, or wish that they dared, and be shamed and unhappy. I think, Elrond, that in this matter it would be well to trust rather to their friendship than to great wisdom. Even if you choose for us an Elf-Lord, such as Glorfindel, he could not storm the Dark Tower, nor open the road to the Fire by the power that is in him.''  
  
''You speak gravely'', said Elrond, yet clearly in disagreement, and Boromir almost began to hope again, ''But I am in doubt. I judge that the younger of these two, Peregrin Took, should remain. My heart is against his going.''  
And the glance he spared for Boromir made it clear why.  
  
''Then, Master Elrond, you will have to lock me in prison, or send me home tied in a sack'', said the youngest hobbit stubbornly. ''For otherwise I shall follow the Company.''  
  
His set jaw and burning eyes left no doubt that he meant it. Both Elrond and Boromir could see that, and they unlocked their eyes in defeat.  
  
''Let it be then. You shall go'', said Elrond, and he sighed. ''Now the tale of the Nine is filled. In seven days the Company must depart.''  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * * *  
When the young hobbits left for the chambers of their grumpy old uncle, and Estel went to see Arwen, and my beloved retreated to the guest house to brood till my arrival, my father looked at me, standing among the trees outside the porch, and his eyes were full of sorrow.  
  
''I regret this turn of events deeply, my son'', he said. ''I would have granted you the comfort of protecting the one you love. Yet these young ones have a claim to be part of the Company; for they, too, are moved by love, though of a different kind.''  
  
''Is then *my* claim not justified?'', I asked, entering the porch. ''Or does my love give me less right to a claim, only because it is unrequited?''  
  
''Elladan'', my father rose and laid a comforting hand upon my arm, ''you know I would have sent you with them if I could. But these young hobbits have already travelled with the Ring-bearer through great peril; and they presence would give Frodo more strength than yours, I believe. I only begin to understand how much the son of Denethor means to you, and it pains me greatly that I cannot grant you your wish. But it is the Ring-bearer whom we must support above all else.''  
  
I closed my eyes, for he was right, as always, but his decision was still hard for me to bear. I had not hoped that he would even consider letting me go with Boromir, at least for a good part of the journey, and it hurt twice now that he had to deny me this comfort. Now only one path was left for me, and I knew it would hit my father hard, for I had not yet spoken to him of my choice - yet I had to follow my heart. I could not go on differently.  
  
''I understand, Father'', I said after a moment of heavy silence. ''Then I wish to execute my right of Protection.''  
My father paled at these words and became silent for what seemed for ever.  
  
''So you have chosen'', he fianlly said, and the hidden pain in his voice was almost unbearable, for I love him greatly and never wanted to cause him such pain, even less after the never-healing wound my sister's choice had torn on his heart. Yet I could deny the longing of my heart for fulfillment even less; and if the only path to fulfillment was to lay down my life and die, I was ready to walk that path.  
  
''Indeed, Father, I have.''  
''Does he know?'', my father asked. I shook my head.  
''Nay; nor do I wish him to ever learn of it.''  
''Why not? He surely has a right to know?''  
  
''It would do no good for either of us. He does not love me the way I love him; and he is guilt-ridden enough for things he did not choose and cannot change as it is, I wish not to add to his burden. He never promised me aught; nor is it his fault that I have fallen for him as I never had before.'' I shrugged. ''Then again, I might have chosen to remain in Middel-earth even without him; you always knew that.''  
  
My father raised a questioning eyebrow.  
''I did?''  
I nodded.  
''Why else would you have feared my final choice so much all my life? You were never worried about Elrohir.''  
''That is ture'', my father sighed. ''Yet to fear it is by far lesser painful than to know the inevitable loss has come. Are you sure about your chosen path, my son?''  
  
''Yes, Father. I shall remain here as long as Elrohir remains, for I could never leave him behind. But once he sets sail for the Blessed Realm, I shall walk the path of your own brother.''  
  
My father was silent again for some time. Then he nodded.  
''So be it. The choice is yours, as it was mine and my brother's and as it will be Elrohir's. I accept your choice, as I always did.''  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
After Elladan left, Elrond collapsed into his big chair, unable to keep his calm any more. Now he could understand why his brother grew so very tired of life after awhile. Losing Elros was hard enough. Losing Celebrían was much worse, it nearly killed him. It certainly would have, if not for Legolas. Losing Arwen, his beautiful daughter was devastating; a deep wound that would never heal. But losing his firstborn was pure agony - one he never felt before.  
  
''He is right, you know'', the soft voice of Legolas said, startingly near him; in his grief he did not sense him coming. ''You always feared this choice of his.''  
  
''I did'',Elrond admitted. ''But I always hoped it would be different... or that we would have more time.''  
  
''What does time matter?'' Legolas asked solemnly. ''A day, a year, a whole age - does it make happiness more sweet or grief less bitter? I do not believe so.''  
  
''Yes, but you are an elf of Mirkwood, and they are a strange lot'', Elrond said with a very undignified sort. ''Why else would you want to go with the Ring-bearer to Mordor?''  
  
''I most certainly do not *wish* to go'', Legolas answered, with a grim look on his fair face, ''yet 'tis something I *have* to do. As much as it would delight me to remain here, I have my obligations. Towards my people. And towards my father.''  
  
Elrond shook his head in disbelief.  
''I cannot belive your father would demand from you to walk the Black Fields. You are his only son. And you have not even sired a heir yet.''  
  
''Very true'', Legolas nodded, ''but I feel that we have retreated from Sauron long enough. Long before the War of the Last Alliance, the great city of my grandfather, Oropher, King of the Silvan Elves east of Anduin, stood upon Amon Lanc in the south of Emyn Galen. Then, being disturbed by the rumours of the rising power of Sauron, he had left his ancient dwellings across the river from our Kin in Lórinand. *Three times* he had moved northwards, till - at the end of the Second Age - he dwelt in the western glens of Emyn Duir, and his numerous people lived and roamed in the woods and vales westward as far as Anduin, nort of the ancient *Men-i-Naugrim*.''  
  
''I already know that, Legolas'', Elrond gently responded. ''I have been alive during that time, remember?''  
  
''Then you surely know as well, how Sauron's shadow spread through Emyn Galen and changed it into Mirkwood. How the Emyn Duir became a haunt of many of his most evil creatures. How our ancient city upon Amon Lanc was destroyed, her beautiful and wise old trees murdered and the evil tower of Dol Guldur raised upon her ruins.''  
  
Legolas' voice became very low and strangely cold, his green eyes burnt with an icy fire.  
''You were there in the Battle upon Dagorlad where my grandfather was slain in the assault upon the Gates of Mordor, with two of every three Silvan Elves that followed him into the battle. We never truly recovered from that loss. Much of what we had known was lost for ever, the magic that once had dwelt in our peple slowly faded away, until we became a shadow of ourselves: a rustic and rude folk, without much wisdom or knowledge. My own father had his dwellings carved in stone and lives under the earth like a Dwarf. Our borders are under constant assaults. If we go on like that, soon there would be no where to retreat.''  
  
''You still can go to the Havens'', Elrond offered mildly, but Legolas shook his head.  
  
''Nay, 'tis not our way. We are Moriquendi, children of the trees and the twilight. We belong with Middle-earth and its woods, as long as a single tree stands. And then, we shall perish with the last one.''  
  
''Not you'', said Elrond. ''You, too, have Sindar blood in your veins. Sooner or later the Sea shall call to you.''  
  
''Maybe'', Legolas replied. ''Not any time soon, I hope. I wish not to leave my trees for a very long time yet.''  
  
''Tis a very dark path you have offered to walk'', Elrond murmured, wishing desperately that he could keep his warrior Prince in the safety of the valley. ''I do not to wish lose you, too. I could not bear it. Not after what Elladan has just told me.''  
  
''With so much at stake, we cannot consider our own feelings'', answered Legolas gently. Elrond nodded.  
''I know that. But I do know, too, what you shall face in the Black Land.''  
  
''You are not the only one'', said Legolas quietly. ''I have watched the weight of the Shadow growing heavier on my own father's heart with every passing season. He, too, had seen the horror of Mordor and cannot forget it. If ever he looked south while Sauron was sleeping, its memory dimmed the light of the sun, and though he knew that it was now broken and deserted and under the vigilance of the Kings of Men, fear spoke in his heart that it was not conquered for ever; that it would rise again. For the Shadow was constantly growing in Dol Guldur, and foul creatures spread through the wood again... and the dreams of my father were haunted with dark fire. It has to end, Elrond, or it will eat up our hearts as well as it eats our trees. I go to Mordor to *see* it end.''  
  
* * * * * * * * * * *  
The next few days were spent in eager preparations. The Sword of Elendil was forged anew by Elvish smiths and on its blade was traced a device of seven stars set between the crescent Moon and the rayed Sun, and about them was written many rules; for Aragorn son of Arathorn was going to war upon the marches of Mordor.  
  
Very bright was that sword when it was made whole again; the light of the sun shone redly in it, and the light of the moon shone cold, and its edge was hard and keen. And Aragorn gave it a new name and called it Andúril, Flame of the West.  
  
So mighty and powerful and bright it was, indeed, that I almost began to hope again. To hope that the blade that once had defeated the Enemy, had taken most of his power, might overthrow him again.  
I almost believed it.  
  
But then I remainded myself how little one Man could do against fate itself and against the forces of Darkness. Even if this Man is the Heir of Isildur. I wanted to believe in him, but how could I? He believed that the Ruling Ring must be destroyed - how could he not see that it was our only hope against the Enemy?  
  
Aragorn and Mithrandir walked together all these days or sat speaking of their road and the perils they would meet; and they pondered the storied and figured maps and books of lore that were in the house of Elrond. Sometimes they called me to be with them, saying that I knew more the roads into Mordor than the both of them together, which was, of course, not true, for they were much older than I was and had seen a lot more than I have. But I understood that my King-to-be wanted to include me into their affairs so that I would not feel shut out or insulted in my honour.  
  
It was a well-meant yet clumsy act to make me feel better - to *tame* me, mayhap -, but for the sake of peace I let it happen. Yet though I did join them when ever I was asked, I was content to lean on their guidance, at least as long as we still walked the fields of the North, after what our paths would part anyway, and I spent as much time as I could with my lover.   
  
For he was strangely thoughtful in the recent days, his eyes clouded with hidden grief and his songs grew more and more sorrowful with every passing night. I was certain there had to be more than my upcoming departure. Yet whenever I asked what was troubling him, he only shook his head, smiled wanly and said that there was much on his mind and that I should not worry about him.   
  
So I did not insist any more, for our time together was, indeed, cut very short already, and I wanted to put it to good use. For though I might not feel the same for him as he felt for me, I got pleasantly accustomed to having him around, and I knew I would sorely miss him once we left the valley.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
On the very eve of the Company's departure, Elladan summoned his lover to the main house, to his own chambers, where Boromir had not been since their first night together; for he wanted to give him a parting gift, as he said, which only could be given in private. Boromir followed his summoning somewhat bewildered, for in all their times together, Elladan had never felt the necessity to make things between them overly ceremonial.  
  
The more surprised he was when he found not only his Elven lover but Glorfindel, too, in the twilit antechamber of Elladan's rooms.  
''I thought you wanted a private meeting'', he remarked.  
  
But Elladan only smiled in sorrow and nodded slowly.  
''It shall be private enough... afterwards. But first I wish to give you something for your long and perilous journey. Something that would help you wear off the darkness when I cannot be with you to do it myself.''  
  
He held up a collar of silver in which a single white stone was set; it was clearly the finest Elven handiwork, and the stone had a mild, soft light glowing in it like a far away white star.  
  
''This'', said Elladan, ''is Adamant, one of the Elf-Stones that came back with Glorfindel from over the Sea; it contains the undying light of Valinor. He gave it to me when I reached maturity, more than twenty centuries ago. It is called the Shielding Stone, for it is for the protection of one's beloved; yet I have not found any one I would want to gift it upon ere I met you. Now I want *you* to wear it.''  
  
Boromir was so stunned he could not even breathe for awhile. Surely, he had heard of the magical powers of the Elf-Stones that returned with the Noldor from the Blessed Realm, yet it was certainly unheard of to give such a Stone to a mortal Man.  
''Elladan, you cannot...''  
  
''Oh, but he can'', the clear, ringing voice of Glorfindel cut in. ''The Adamant was gifted upon him for this exact purpose only. He asked me to witness so that no-one can ever doubt your right to wear the Shielding Stone, and I am very glad that it finally can fulfill its true purpose.''  
  
He paused, and when he continued, his voice became low and quiet, full of wonder for the deep love of the younger Elf, who was like a son to him, towards a mortal Man - and for his brave choice.  
  
''I know not whether you can fully understand the meaning of this, son of Denethor, but do not think of it as a simple parting gift between two lovers. For such is the power of the Shielding Stone, that when ever you wear it, part of him who gifted it upon you, shall always be with you. You can reach his soul over many hundreds of leagues, even thorough time itself, bringing back living memories of shared joy as if you were having one of the Elven waking dreams.''  
  
He paused again then added with an earnest smile:  
''You can bring back the memory of his songs when dreams of fire and darkness torture you again.''  
  
Boromir glared at the collar in Elladan's hand in wonder.  
''That tiny Stone can do that?''  
  
''Not the Stone itself'', Elladan laughed quietly. ''Its powers are great, but they only work for a soul that is bond to an other. Be not frightened'', he added a little sadly, seeing the slight flinch in Boromir's demeanor, ''I do not intend to wed you. Even if the customs of your people would allow such a thing, you are already promised to Éowyn of Rohan, and I respect that. I only intend to bond *myself* to you, without forcing any obligations upon you. 'Tis a gift, given freely by me - and accepted freely by you, if you choose to accept.''  
  
''But I heard that when Elves bond themselves, it is till death'', Boromir said warily.  
  
''Nay, 'tis even beyond Death and beyond the Sea, going on even in Mandos' Hall till the end of Ea'', said Glorfindel quietly. ''That is why we only can bond ourselves to an other one single time. Some of us never find a devotion strong enough to take such a final step, yet when we do, it brings us a fulfillment we cannot find otherwise.''  
  
''But should this not be something felt by both sides?'', Boromir asked, for he was reluctant to let Elladan enter such a one-sided bond. It felt not right to allow the Elf to make such a sacrifice - and not be able to give him equal devotion.  
  
''In most cases it is'', Glorfindel nodded, ''but sometimes we have to find our fulfillment in giving, without receiving. 'Tis no bitter thing, though. Our nature is such that we can warm our hearts in our devotion and in cheerished memories of what ever we received for years uncounted, and have a happy life, even in solitude.''  
  
There was something in his voice that spoke of personal experience, and Boromir wondered just who might it have been to whom Glorfindel had bound his soul ages ago - with a bond strong enough to make him serve Elrond's family ever since he returned from over Sea.  
  
And he looked at Ellandan's calm, serene face, wondering, whether this meant that Elrond's eldest would defend Minas Tirith for *him*, even after he was long gone. He felt guilty to think of naught else at this moment when Elladan was preparing to give him the greates gift an Elf could ever give... and hesiated, whether he should refuse after all.  
  
But then he saw the deep undersatnding in the clear, sorrowful eyes of his lover and understood that acceptance was the only thing he really *could* give him; that - in spite of the different kind of their feelings for each other -, he could, indeed, bring fulfillment to Elladan's life.  
  
''I gratefully accept'', he said with a slight bow of his head. ''I only wish I could do the same thing for you.''  
  
Elladan smiled; not one of his wry half-grins this time, but a smile that made his chiseled features glow from the inside.  
''We cannot change the ways of our heart by will only'', he answered gently, ''and I never asked you for anything you cannot give.''  
  
''Indeed, you did not'', Boromir nodded; then he shifted a liffle uncomfortably. ''What do I have to do, then?''  
  
''Nothing'', Elladan replied, still smiling. ''Tis *my* oath, not yours. I asked Glorfindel to witness, for he is the eldest who dwells in my father's house; and the one who has spoken to the Lords of Valinor in flesh - and this is something where their blessing has to be prayed for.''  
  
He gently laid the silver collar around Boromir's neck, and it closed with a slight click and became smooth and firm all around at once, for it had no clasp whatsoever, only the ancient Elven magic that was wrought in its sacred metal - and it felt as warm and light as a silken ribbon, keeping the warmth and gentleness of Elladan's touch.  
  
And Elladan smiled again and spoke in a quiet but firm voice, not in Quenya or the Common Speech, but in the ancient tongue of Gondor, to Boromir's great surprise:  
  
Boromir son of Denethor  
To thee I pledge my love  
Now and for ever,  
Beyond the Sea and beyond Death itself,  
To watch over you  
And to protect you from all things of evil,  
from Fire and Darkness  
and from the shadows of evil long gone.  
This vow I speak before Manwë Súlimo,  
Lord of the Winds, King of the Valar  
and before Varda, Queen of the Stars;  
and this oath I swear  
in the Name of Eru, Ilúvatar,  
the Maker of all things  
above and beneath the Sky and the Sea.  
  
And by the naming of the Name that was only spoken in the most solemn of oaths, the white stone began glowing again and its light never darkened as long as Boromir was alive.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
End Note:  
I know, I was supposed to finally set them out in this chapter, but then I felt the need to explore the motivations of certain members of the Company. After all, we were never told just *why* Legolas was chosen, right? 


	3. Chapter 2: The Wheel of Fire

OF SNOW AND STONE AND WOLVES  
by Soledad Cartwright  
  
  
Disclaimer: still not mine, except of the Lady Aquiel, who shall *not* appear in this chapter.  
The song 'May It Be' is, of course, from the movie and belongs to Enya, Roma Ryan and all those movie people.   
  
Rating: PG - 13, for heavy angst stuff (in later chapters) and implied m/m interaction.  
  
  
Author's notes:  
Thousand thanks to Deborah, whose excellent suggestion helped me out of my writer's block considering this story. Be warned, though, this is the first time I tried to go inside Aragorn's head, and I can't do him very well. He just isn't as close to my heart as Boromir is. Everyone is entitled to their own preferences, I guess.  
  
  
CHAPTER TWO: THE WHEEL OF FIRE  
  
When the cold, grey morning of departure came, my beloved took his leave from me to return to the guest house, for he had preparations to make. We agreed to make our farewell a private one, so I was to follow him to his chambers later on that day. There was naught I could have done for him - for any one of the Company - at that moment, so I climbed up to the second level of my father's house, to one of its many balconies that faced eastwards.  
  
It was almost in the middle of *Hrívë*, or as Men would call it, near the end of December already, the days short and grey, and even the weak sunlight pale. The East Wind was streaming through the bare branches of the trees, and seething in the dark pines on the hills. Ragged clouds were hurrying overhead, dark and low, their bellies heavy with snow. I shall never understand what Legolas and his people could like in this season. I could never bear it, not even in Lórien, where the leaves of the *mallorn*-trees do not fall, just turn into pure gold.  
  
Already the stars of Varda, the silent witnesses of my sacred oath, had faded away from the early morning sky. Only the far-away flame of Orodruin glowed darkly just above the brink of the valley, like an evil, ever-watchful eye. I know, that was the fire that haunted Boromir's dreams. And I prayed to the Lady of the Stars that my love shall be strong enough to protect him from falling into darkness.  
  
An old blessing came to my mind, older than the House of Númenorean Kings - one that had been sung to my father's brother upon his departure, when he had made the same choice as I - and ere I fully realized what I was doing, I began to sing, not in Quenya as it was sung back then, but in the old tongue of Númenor, as it had been taught me in my childhood.  
  
May it be an evening star  
Shines down upon you  
May it be when darkness falls  
Your heart will be true  
You walk a lonely road  
Oh! How are you far from home.  
  
Mornië utúlië (darkness has come)  
Believe and you will find your way.  
Mornië alantië (darkness has fallen)  
A promise lives within you now.  
  
May it be shadow's call  
Will fly away  
May it be you journey on  
The light the day  
When the night is overcome  
You may rise to find the sun.  
  
Mornië utúlië (darkness has come)  
Believe and you will find your way.  
Mornië alantië (darkness has fallen)  
A promise lives within you now.  
A promise lives within you now.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
As the cheerless shadows of the early morning began to fall, the Company made ready to set out. They were to start at dusk, for Elrond counselled them to journey under cover of night as often as they could, until they were far from Imladris.  
  
''You should fear the many eyes of the servants of Sauron'', he said. ''I do not doubt that news of the discomfiture of the Riders has already reached him, and he shall be filled with wrath. Soon now his spies on foot and wing shall be abroad in the northern lands. Even of the sky above you must beware as you go on your way.''  
  
  
And in the privacy of Boromir's bedchamber, which they had chosen to be the place of their farewell, Elladan added earnestly:  
  
''Never cease to wear my gift, for as now 'tis the only thing that stands between you and the darkness. Its enchanted lock cannot be broken by any other than you or me. Do not hesitate to summon up the memories of my songs - of what we shared - when the Shadow begins to haunt your heart again. The Stone shall reach my soul, no matter how far eastwards you might have gone. And I shall pray to the Lady of the Stars to watch over your way.''  
  
He leaned over, took Boroir's face in his hands and kissed the Man, first lightly on the lips, then more firmly upon his brow, as it had been custom in Gondor in old times when those of close kin departed. And who, indeed, save Arwen and Aragorn, could have been closer than the two of them?  
  
''Be in peace, Boromir'', Elladan said; then he added the ancient, ritual greeting in Quenya, the Ancient Tongue of the Eldar: ''*Elen síla lúmenn omentielvo1* You brought a light into my life that shall never fade.''  
  
* * * * * * * * *  
  
The Company took little gear of war, for their hope was in secrecy, not in battle. Aragorn had Andúril but no other weapon, and he went forth clad only in rusty green and brown, as a Ranger of the wilderness.  
  
Boromir, too, had a long sword, in fashion like Andúril but of less heritage (though he needed not to be ashamed of it, for it had been in the possession of the firstborn sons of Stewards ever since the time of the first Ruling Steward), and he bore also a shield and his great war-horn.  
  
He was cloaked and booted as if for a journey on horseback again, for his travel-stained, rich garments and fur-lined cloak were replaced due to the hospitality of Elrond; and his locks were shorn about his shoulders again. He wore the silver collar proudly and openly, to the wide-eyed astonishment of the Elves of the valley, but his tunic was held together by the time-blackened silver clasp with the White Tree upon it - the one he received from the Lady Éowyn - just below his throat.  
  
Ere they had gathered fully, he took the silver-tipped white horn from his shoulder, where it was worn on a baldric, and looked at it fondly, for it was a very precious family heirloom, indeed, the horn of the wild ox of the East, adorened with silver and ancient letters written all upon it.  
  
''Loud and clear it sounds in the valleys of the hills'', he said proudly, ''and then let all the foes of Gondor flee.''  
  
Putting it to his lips he blew a blast, and the echoes lepat from rock to rock, and all that heard that voice in Imladris sprang to their feet. And Elladan, standing on the balcony of the guest house, shook his head in mild disapproval. As much as he loved the Man, Boromir's stubborn antics got to him at times.  
  
''Slow should you be to wind that horn again, Boromir'', Elrond warned, ''until you stand once more on the borders of your land, and dire need is on you.''  
  
''Maybe'', said Boromir. ''But always I let my horn cry at setting forth, and though thereafter we may walk in the shadows, I shall no go forth as a thief in the night.''  
/For though I am the one who shall be robbed of my land and my high chair, I still keep my pride, and I shall let no-one, not even the Shadow take *that* from me!/  
  
Elrond seemed as if he had read his thoughts, for he did not answer but turned away to speak to Legolas, who stood a few steps away, flanked by his own people who had escorted him from Mirkwood two months ago. The Wood-Elf wore his usual green and brown garment of soft leather and rough linen and the silver-adorned wrist guards of strong, hard leather that were customary among archers. For he had a bow, not very large, but expertly crafted, and a quiver full of long, green-feathered arrows, and at his belt a long white knife. His hair was tightly braided again, back from his face, like always when he was on the way, and his deep emerald eyes were haunted. He spoke with Elrond shortly, then turned back to his own people, and they stood together in one of the arched entrances, silently starring towards the East.  
  
Gimly the Dwarf alone wore openly a short shirt of steel-rings, for Dwarves make light of burdens; and in his belt was a broad-bladed axe. He, too, stood alone, for his Father had returned to Erebor shortly after the Council, and there was no-one of his Kind left in the valley.  
  
The younger hobbits wore daggers, long, leaf-shaped and keen, of marvellous workmanship, damasked with serpent-forms in red and gold. They gleamed as Pippin dew his from its black sheat, wrought of some strange metal, light and strong, and set with many fiery stones, to proudly show it the Dwarf.  
  
Boromir looked at the weapons in awe, for he, well-versed in the lore of his own people, recognized the design of the blades, of course, and knew that they were forged many long years ago for the nobles of the North-kingdom, ere those were overcome by the evil King of Carn Dúm in the land of Angbad. He wondered how the little ones came to these daggers they wore as small swords, deciding to ask them later, at a time more proper.  
  
  
Their farewells had been said in the great hall by the fire, and they were only waiting now for Mithrandir who had not yet come out of the house. A gleam of firelight came from the open doors and soft lights were glowing in many windows - the valley prepared for their departure, too.  
  
The old hobbit, Bilbo, huddled in a cloak, stood silent on the doorsteps beside Frodo. Aragorn sat with his head to his knees; only Elrond knew fully what this hour meant to him. The Elves of Mirkwood took their leave from their Prince and returned to the guest house. Boromir stood aside, as usual, shifting impatiently, trying to get used to wear his mail shirt under his tunic again - the two months in the valley when he could lay it down were a blessing. But safety came before comfort, and they were about to set out on a very dark way, indeed.  
  
  
Finally Elrond came out with Mithrandir, and he called the Company to him.  
''This is my last word'', he said in a low voice. ''The Ring-bearer is setting out on the Quest of Mount Doom. On him alone is any charge laid: neither to cast away the Ring, nor to deliver it to any servant of the enemy nor indeed to let any handle it, save members of the Company and the Council, and only then in gravest need'', he glanced warningly at Boromir, who glared back at him in defiance, then added:  
  
''The others go with him as free companions, to help him on his way. You may tarry, or come back, or turn aside into other paths as chance allows or'', he looked at Aragorn and Boromir, ''as duty demands. The further you go, the less easy will it be to withdraw; yet no oath or bond is laid upon you to go further than you will. For you do not yet know the strength of your hearts'', he turned pointedly to the younger hobbits, ''and you cannot foresee what each may meet upon the road.''  
  
The Halflings made a stubborn face, yet it was Gimli who answered.  
''Faithless is he that says farewell when the road darkens'', the Dwarf rumbled, deep in his broad chest.  
''Maybe'', said Elronds, ''but let him not vow to walk in the dark, who has not seen the nightfall.''  
  
/And just what is *that* suppose to mean, Master Half-elven?/, Boromir asked himself troubled, for if any mortal Man *had* seen the nightfall, he most certainly did. His hand involuntarily crept up his own chest to the silver collar and his rough fingertips touched the Stone, with the same gentleness as they had touched Elladan's face only a few moments ago.  
  
The small gesture caught Aragorn's eyes who had been in thoughts too deeply to recognize this special piece of jewelry earlier. The eyes of the Ranger grew wide, guessing the ramifications of the Shielding Stone having been given to Boromir, and he shot a questioning glance at Elrond, but the Lord of Imladris was looking away in defeat.  
  
''Yet sworn word may strengthen quaking heart'', said Gimli, who, in customary Dwarvish ignorance, noticed naught from the unspoken question, nor from the denied answer.  
  
''Or break it'', said Elrond with a sight, clear for at least Mithrandir and Aragorn - and, of course, for Boromir himself -, *which* vow he had in his mind. ''Look not too far ahead! But go now with good hearts! Farewell, and may the blessing of Elves and Men and all Free Folk go with you.''  
He paused for a heartbeat, then added in a slow, grave voice:  
''May the stars of the Lady Elbereth shine upon your faces and Manwë, Lord of the Winds watch over your paths.''  
  
Hearing that last addition Aragorn stiffened, for Elrond's eyes lay clearly on Boromir's face alone, and the name of Manwë Súlimo, High King of the Valar, usually was not spoken by a simple farewell. That last phrase was, in fact, part of the fatherly blessing in the Elven wedding ceremony, invoked by the father calling Manwë as his withness that his blessing was truly given.  
  
Many others of Elrond's household stood in the shadows and watched them go, bidding them farewell with soft voices, among others Glorfindel himself, the Lady Aquiel and even Elrohir, who tempered his own upset heart long enoug to part in peace from the two Men who had taken brother and sister from him - but neither Arwen, nor Elladan were to see.  
  
There was no laughter, no song or music. At least they turned away and faded silently into the dusk, only their eyes following the steps of those who were to leave.  
  
  
The Company crossed the bridge and wound slowly up the long steep paths that led out of the cloven vale of Imladris. They passed along the guest house, and Boromir stole a glance at the long balcony where the tall, slender figure of Elladan still stood among the lengthening shadows. Their eyes met for a last time: and Boromir saw in awe that Elladan's face was calm and peaceful, as if he had reached a depth of inner retreat where no pain could reach him any more.  
  
Then the moment passed, as they set their way forth, coming at length to the high moor where the wind hissed through the heather. Then with one final glance at the Last Homely House twinking below them they strode away far into the night.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
At the Ford of Bruinen we left the Road and turning southwards went on by narrow paths among the folded lands. Our purpose was to hold this course west of the Mountains for many miles and days.  
  
The country was much rougher and more barren than in the green vale of Anduin in Wilderland on the other side of the range, where Boromir had come northwards two months ago, and we knew that our going would be slow. But Gandalf hoped in this way to escape the notice of unfriendly eyes, and I agreed with him fully. The spies of the Enemy had hitherto seldom been seen in this empty country, and the paths were little known except to the Elves of Rivendell.  
  
Gandalf walked in front, and I accompanied him, for I knew this land even in the dark. The hobbits were in file behind, led by Gimly son of Glóin, and with the good Master Samwise at the end, leading our only beast of burden: the same pony that we had brought from Bree and that Sam, for a reason known only to him, had named Bill. Legolas, whose eyes are keen, was the rearguard, which relieved me greatly, for that way I could at least be sure that no-one would approach us from behind unnoticed.  
  
I have travelled with the Prince of Mirkwood before, sometimes together with Elladan and Elrohir, so I knew very well what he is capable of - much more, indeed, than even other Elves would expect from him. There is somehing in him, some wildness that cannot be tamed, in spite of his elegant features and soft-speaking manner. 'Tis a trait common to all Wood-Elves and easily forgotten - our short but harsh fight at the Council had shown me how easily; and that a Man does well to keep this in his mind.  
  
I know Elrond wished not for him to come with us, but there is no power in Middle-earth that could withhold the son of Thranduil once he had set his mind on a certain task - not even his own father. I saw him speak with Boromir briefly, who was walking directly before him, then retreating into that eerie silence only Elves are capable of - one of the few things I could never get used to, in all those years spent among them -, and wondered if there was some unspoken understanding between him and Elrond (or, more likely, between him and Elladan), to keep an eye on the Heir of Gondor.  
  
That little scene by our farewell, in the great hall of Elrond's house, had shaken me to the bone. I recognized the Stone Boromir was wearing at once - how could I not? It was a precious family heirloom, one of the few things that came back with Glorfindel from the Blessed Realm, and what is more, it had a unique meaning. It only could be given once during the entire life of a keeper.  
  
I knew, of course, that Elladan had fallen for Boromir with an almost frightening passion - I *do* belong to the family after all -, yet I have never thought that his devotion would be rooted *this* deep. All of Elrond's children had inherited something very precious, something that had survived the Fall of Gondolin and kept safe, to give it to their spouses when the moment of eternal bonding has come - the moment when Elves give themselves to the one they live, utterly and without restrictions, body and heart and soul.  
  
One day, I, too, shall receive the token of Arwen's restless devotion, as I had given her my heart at the first sight.  
  
If fate will and the Valar allow it, this moment shall come, soon now. She had spoken of it many times to me, telling me about her love and that naught should ever separate us, not the depths of the Sea or the shadows of Death itself. We have waited through long, unfulfilled years, yet in our hearts always have we known that the day of our merging shall come. If her father wants me to become King before, so be it - I shall do every thing he demands in exchange. And he is right in one thing: the Lady Undómiel deserves to be Queen over both Arnor and Gondor.  
  
Yet Elladan did not wait. He only had known Boromir for two moons, or even less, and already pledged himself to him, without hesitation, without even asking for his father's blessing - and, since neither of them was wearing a ring by our departure, I have to assume that this bond of his was one-sided. Knowing the customs of Gondor, it could hardly be anything else.  
  
And still, Elrond *did* give his blessing. Afterwards, for sure, and Boromir probably did not even realize it, but Elrond had invoked the name of Manwë, Lord of Winds and Highest of the Valar, asking for his protection in the most ceremonial manner - that is used only during a wedding ritual - for the one his son loved.  
  
Had Arwen and I bound ourselves without his knowledge, would he have given his blessing, too, I wonder? Would Arwen have been willing to take such a final, desperate step, risking the wrath of her father?  
I wish I could answer that.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
The first part of our jurney was hard and dreary, and I remembered little of it, save the wind. For many sunless days an icy blast came from the Mountains in the east, and no garment seemed able to keep out its searching fingers. Though we had been well furnished by Elrond with thick warm clothes, and we had jackets and cloaks lined with fur, we seldom felt warm, either moving or at rest.  
  
We slept uneasily during the middle of the day, in some hollow of the land, or hidden under the tangled thorn-bushes that grew in thickets in many places. In the late afternoon we were roused by the watch and took our main meal: cold and cheerless as a rule, for we could seldom risk the lightning of a fire. In the evening we went on again, always as nearly southward as we could find a way.  
  
The days and nights were so much alike that I had lost count on them. There was naught but the wind, half-buried paths among the stones, tasteless food and troubled sleep under a steel-grey sky, covered with dirty, snow-heavy clouds.  
  
And the dark whispers from the shadowy depths of my own heart.  
  
They awoke in daytimes and nighttimes, in the never-land between dream and awakeness, where neither the strength of my own will, nor the memories of my lover's songs could protect me from their assaults.  
  
Wordless and far away they were, yet ever present, even at times of rest, and I understood their meaning all too well.  
  
Sometimes they spoke with the harsh voice of my father, calling me a coward and a traitor for bending my knee before an ursurper and throwing away the only means to keep our land and its people safe.  
  
And I saw my beautiful city in flames; the great Gate with its iron posts and steel bars break under the mighty spell of words of powers and terror, cried aloud in a dreadful voice in the same ancient, evil tongue Mithrandir had used at the Council, to rend both heart and stone. And a great dark shape against the fires beyond loomed up, and in rode the Nameless Fear, under the archway that no enemy yet had passed, and all fled before his face.  
  
And all before the wall on either side of the Gate the ground was choked with wreck and with bodies of the slain; yet still driven as by madness, more and more of the dark forces came up, floating the broken walls like the black wave that once swallowed Númenor.  
  
I could have lain a protective wall of fire around the most beautiful and valiant city the hands of Men had ever built - if ever I could lay hand upon the source of such power. If only he who wanted to become her King would love her half as much as I and the mine did. But he loved the White City not truly, not as a King should have, and I had bent my knee before him at the Council, and never would my father forgive me for that.  
  
  
Sometimes the whispers spoke with the voice of the Lady Éowyn, a voice bitter and cold, accusing me of betrayal upon my closest friends and allies.  
And I saw the fair green fields of Calenardhon soaked with the spilt blood of the brave Riders of Rohan, my brother-in-arms, Théodred son of Théoden slain, his strong body broken, his helm dinted, his shield cloven, and the light of life gone from his eyes.  
  
And I saw the Golden Hall of Meduseld burnt to the ground, the old King of the Mark murdered, brave young Éomer in chains, the people of Edoras slain or enslaved in the deep mines of Isengard, and the White Lady of Rohan laying high upon the dark tower of Curunír, her throath cut by her own hand, having chosen death before dishonour by the dirty hands of the treacherous Wormtongue.  
  
  
And sometimes the whispers spoke to me with the sad and gentle voice of my own brother, complaining over my unfaithfulness, for I have taken from another one what he could never give me. And though I know that Faramir would never accuse me thus, that, in truth, he would be glad I had finally found some happiness, hearing his sad and hurt voice was almost more than I could bear.  
  
I knew that accursed Ring was whispering to me. Elladan had warned me upon our departure of its powers that would grow the more the nearer it came to its Maker. I understood now that it was evil, yet I could not wear off its spell in that half-dream state the numbing twilights of our path kept trapping me in. It was burning in the inside of my lids like a wheel of fire - like the Great Eye itself that had been haunting my nightmares ever since the Shadow fell upon my heart in Osgiliath.  
  
  
We came to a rest again and I fell heavily on the ground, my fingers tasting after the Stone on their own. This was the only relief I had found on this journey... to curl my hand around the Stone and feel the soft, ethereal touch of my lover's gentle soul upon mine. His presence covered my heart like a warm blanket - I felt my whole body go limp with relief. It almost felt as if he would lay somewhere near, just outside my reach, and laughing silently, just out of my hearing.  
  
I could feel the watching eyes of the others on me.  
The deep, blue eyes of Mithrandir, watching from below his bushy brows, full of doubt and dismay towards me, partly because of his frequent disagreements with my father, no doubt of that.  
  
The bright, green eyes of Legolas, searching my face with troubled glances (mayhap Elladan, or even Elrond himself, had asked him to watch over me).  
  
The small, coal-black eyes of the Dwarf, suspicious and mistrusting, just as he watched all the others, too, for Dwarves do not easily trust other races, it is said.  
  
And the clear, grey eyes of Arathorn son of Aragorn, the future King of Gondor, also bare of trust, and even a little jealous, which I could not truly undertsand. What in Middle-earth could he feel jealous for? Was not *he* the one who prepared himself to take *my* inheritance away?  
  
  
Someone tugged on my sleeve and I let go of the Stone, looking up straight into the round, warm brown eyes of one of the hobbits. It was the youngest one, Peregrin Took - the one the others called Pippin. Standing before me, he was about as tall as I was sitting - and he was reaching me a piece of bread and some dried meat.  
  
''Your supper, Lord Boromir, sir'', he said on that merry little voice of his.  
  
Thought he had been the reason why Elladan finally was not sent with the Company, I came to like the little fellow as our journey went on. He was funny and curious and easy-going and certainly well-mannered for someone who had never left his small land before - he always called me 'Lord Boromir' or 'sir', which is not a big thing, yet it felt good.   
  
Mithrandir, and even my King-to-be, never handled me with respect. In their eyes I was naught but a nuisance - someone who is to count with. Someone who the Ring and its bearer has to be protected from. I believe Aragorn has already regretted bringing me along on this quest, though having decided to come to Minas Tirith, he could not easily avoid my company.  
  
Also, the young hobbit was very, very protective towards the Ring-bearer, who, I learnt, was his elder cousin, and that was something I understood very well. Yet he also seemed to avoid me - he was even reluctant to come near me, save the occasions like this one, when he was sent with something to give me. Which I could *not* understand, for I never hurt him, nor have I been aught but polite to all Halflings.  
  
So I decided to make the first step, for I did not want him to fear me.  
''Thank you, Master Peregrin'', I said as friendly as I could manage in my weary state. ''Would you care to join me?''  
  
His eyes became a little frantic, like those of a small, trapped animal, but then his curiosity became stronger than his fear, and he nodded mutely and sat down next to me.  
  
''So'', I said easily, ''finally I get the pleasure of your company. For as till now, you have taken great pains in order to keep away from me. Have I done anything to frighten you?''  
  
He glared at me, startled, clearly wondering if he had somehow offended me, and if yes, how could he make things between us better.  
''Oh no, my good sir, surely you have not!'', he cried. ''Yet every time I came in your sight, you looked me in dismay, so I guessed you either dislike hobbits - or you just dislike me.''  
  
Now I felt ashamed, for it was true that I had been angry at him first, for if not for him, surely Elrond would have allowed Elladan to join us, to my great relief and pleasure. Yet I knew it was not my right to harrass this brave little fellow for being faithful and protective towards someone he loved.  
  
''Not so, Master Peregrin'', I said, deciding to be honest with him. '''Tis true, I would have preferred someone very... close to me to come with us in your stead, but I keep no grudge against you.''  
  
He looked up into my face with clear fondness, which I found amusing, since I was twice his size and almost twice his age.  
''I regret your loss'', he said in a small, sad voice. ''And I regret even more that it had to happen because of me.''  
  
I shook my head.  
''Nay, you have as much right to be here as any one of the Company; and you have proved your worthiness during the perilous journey from the Shire to Imladris already.''  
  
My words seemed to delight him, and he stayed with me during our rest, to the slight surprise of the others. And we talked a lot - more, indeed, than I had talked to any one during my whole stay in Imladris, for Halflings are a very talkative folk, curious like cats, and mostly of high spirits, and they *love* stories, short ones and long ones, both to tell them or to listen to them.  
  
So I befriended Peregrin son of Paladin, and during our long and mind-numbing journey I have learnt a lot about the strange land and even stranger customs of the Halflings, and my own spirit lightened a little, for it would have been hard to remain gloomy in the delightful company of these small and funny young people. For often his other cousin and closest friend, Meriadoc (who even was *called* Merry, a name fitting him very well), and we laughed and jested and at times even sang together, to the awe of the rest of the Company.  
  
And the wheel of fire lay less heavily upon my heart for awhile.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
End note:  
I really, *really* planned to send them up the Caradhreas in this chapter, but Boromir was broody and Pippin wanted a friend, so I had to let them bond a little first.  
  
  
  
  
  
1 A star shines on the hour of our meeting. 


	4. Chapter 3: Hollin - Dreams, Birds and Sh...

Of Snow and Stone and Wolves  
by Soledad Cartwright  
  
Disclaimer:  
The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun.  
  
Rating: PG - 13, for heavy angst stuff and implied m/m interaction.  
  
  
Author's notes:  
  
Sorry, still no Caradhras - and at the speed how things unfold on their own, they will be in Hollin for one more chapter, I'm afraid. Originally there was supposed to be only *one* chapter in Hollin, but then it would have been much too long, so I broke it into two because I did not want to rush things.  
  
Anyway, first of all many thanks to those who reviewed the former chapters, especially to Deborah who never fails to give me new ideas with her comments. Certain parallels and additional hints to this story can be found in ''A Tale of Never-Ending Love'', in case you are interested.  
  
I want to apologize by the Tolkien-purists among us for giving certain lines into the mouths of other characters than the Great Maker has done. Remember, the canon is largely written from a neutral POV or from that of the hobbits. *This* is how Boromir remembers things - very personal and not necessarily correct, but since this is *his* story, I took some freedom here.  
  
  
CHAPTER THREE: HOLLIN - DREAMS, BIRDS AND SHADOWS  
  
We have been a fortnight on the way - at least that was what the little ones said, for I had long ago stopped counting the twilit days -, when the weather changed. The wind suddenly fell and then veered round to the south, and my heart followed, feeling something akin to hope for the first time sice we left Imladris.  
  
The swift-flowing clouds lifted and melted away, and the sun came out, pale and bright. There came a cold, clear dawn at the end of our long, stumbling nightmarch. It reminded me on cool winter mornings in Minas Tirith, when I often stood upon the walls of my city and could see far and unhindered towards the green fields of Calenardhon through the crystal clear air. I began to breathe easier.  
  
On this morrow we reached a low ridge crowned with ancient holly-trees whose grey-green trunks seemed to have been built out of the very stone of the hills. Their dark leaves shone and their berries glowed red in the light of the rising sun.  
  
Legolas left his place on the rear at once and ran up to the old trees lightly as a lizard on a sunlit rock. Soon, we could see him in deep, wordless conversation with them, his palm resting gently on the rough bark, his eyes shut in intense inward focussing. In his greyish green cloak he looked like a young tree himself.  
  
Aragorn seemed angry at him for leaving his place and moved to bring him back, but Mithrandir, who stood at the Ring-bearer's side, caught his sleeve.  
  
''Let him'', he said. ''You know the ways of the Silvan folk; after a fortnight with no trees to talk to, he needs this.'' He looked out under his hand and added: ''We have done well. We have reached the borders of the country that Men call Hollin; many Elves lived here in happier days, when Eregion was its name. Five-and-forty leagues as the crow flies we have come, though many long miles further our feet have walked.''  
  
I certainly could feel in my bones *that*, and - not for the first time - longingly did I think of my horse that was slain by the cursed Orcs at the ruined city of Tharbad. Though I was used to bear great hardness, I was *not* unsed to bear it afoot (unlike my brother who had spent the recent years among the Rangers of Ithilien), and my shield - great protection on horseback, yet of little use on the ground - became an added burden. I threw it to the ground and grunted.  
  
''The land and the weather will be milder now'', the wizard added, ''but perhaps all the more dangerous.''  
  
''Dangerous or not, a real sunrise is mightly welcome'', said Frodo, throwing back his hood and letting the morning light fall on his face.  
  
I whole-heartedly agreed and watched Legolas returning from the trees. His face was strangely refreshed, as if he had just drawn a long, cold drink after having an endless walk in the desert of Harad.  
  
Gimli the Dwarf, who had came up with him, was now gazing out before him with a strange light in his deep eyes. I had never seen him this excited during our whole journey. To think about it, I had never seen him excited at all, so far.  
  
''There is the land where our fathers worked of old'', he said, ''and we wrought the image of these mountains into many works of metal and of stone, and into many songs and tales. They stand tall in our dreams: Baraz, Zirak, Shathúr.''  
  
I followed his gaze, and away in the south I could see the dim shapes of lofty mountains that seemed now to stand across the path we were taking. At the left of this high range rose three peaks; the tallest and nearest stood up like a tooth tipped with snow; its great, bare northern precipice was still largely in the shadow, but where the sulight slanted upon it, it glowed red as if stained with blood.  
  
''There the Misty Mountains divide, and between their arms lies the deep-shadowed valley which we cannot forget'', the Dwarf added: ''Azanulbizar, the Dimrill Dale, which the Elves call Nanduhirion.''  
  
''It is for the Dimrill Dale that we are making'', said Mithrandir. ''If we climb the pass that is called the Redhorn Gate, under the far side of Caradhras, we shall come down by the Dimrill Stair into the deep vale of the Dwarves. There lies the Mirrormere, and there the River Silverlode rises its icy springs.''  
  
''Dark is the water of Kheled-záram'', said Gimli with a sigh of deep longing, ''and cold are the springs of Kibil-nála. My heart trembles at the thought that I might see them soon.''  
  
He continued ranting about the beauty of that valley, but - though I certainly could understand his longing for the place where his forefathers once lived - I did not listen to his ramblings. My eyes were on that ragged precipice and my heart filled with dread. Did the wizard know what he was about to do? Did he know the perils of mountains in the times of winter?  
  
I still could vividly remember at that quest, nearly twenty years ago. My father decided to aid the Rohirrim in their fight against the Dúnlendings, who were falling into the Mark once again, slaughtering horses for food and capturing young children to raise them as their own, for their housings, moist caves deep under the hills, made their offspring die in great numbers, at a very young age.  
  
Théodred and I, both young warriors at that time (Éomer and the Lady Éowyn were still but little children), were pursuing the men of Ragnar the Smith1 with naught but a small escort. They fled to the mountains, and we had to climb the passes of the Mindolluin to catch them - which is not so hard during summer, but deadly when the first snow has fallen... something we did not know back then. In the end, we somehow managed to get through, but we almost died; several Men of our escort, in fact, did. And though this quest led to the first awkward peace treaty between King Théoden and Ragnar the Smith, I still think back with dread to it, and so does Théodred, too, I know that.  
  
How come Mithrandir cannot feel the coming of snow in his bones? Did he not consider that it would almost certainly be the death of the Halflings? Grown Men would be hard-pressed to pass the Mountains in the winter! Or does he think he could defeat the snow with the power that is in him?  
  
I shook my head and forced myself to listen to the wizard's explanations. Not that the names he mentioned would have said much to me, but at least I wanted to know what lay before us, in case I had to protect the little ones. *Someone* had to think of him, if all the wise forgot about them. The Ring-bearer and his servant were not the only ones that needed to be protected.  
  
''We must go down the Silverlode to the secret woods'', he said, and Legolas' eyes became even brighter hearing that, ''and so to the Great River, and then...''  
  
He paused, clearly having no idea about the rest of our - *their* - way. I for my part would be leaving them as soon as we reached Anduin's west bank. My white city is waiting for me, with or without her self-proclaimed King.  
  
''Yes, and where then?'', asked Meriadoc.  
Trust the Halflings that they would not let any one leave their curiosity unsatisfied - not even a shrewd old wizard like Mithrandir!  
  
''To the end of our journey - in the end'', the old man said in his customary shadowy manner. ''We cannot look too far ahead. Let us be glad that the first stage is safely over. I think we shall rest here, not only today but tonight as well. There is a wholesome air about Hollin. Much evil must befall a country ere it wholly forgets the Elves, if once they dwelt here.''  
  
''That is ture'', said Legolas, yet his fair face was strangely hard and his eyes darkened. ''But the Elves of this land were a race strange to us of the Silvan folk, and the trees and the grass do not now remember them. Only I hear the stones lament them.''  
  
Suddenly his voice deepened and the weight of many centuries long gone overshadowed his face, and he no longer looked young but ancient and strong and beautiful like the hills themselves, as he spoke:  
''Deep they delved us... fair they wrought us... high they builded us... but they are gone...''  
  
He shuddered lightly; then the shadow of ancient times was gone, and he was himself again, fair, kind and valiant Prince of Mirkwood.  
''They are gone'', he said in his own voice again. ''They sought the Havens long ago.''  
  
* * * * * * * * * * *  
  
That morning we lit a fire in a deep hollow shrouded by great bushes of holly, and our supper-breakfast was merrier than it had been since we set out. Samwise, Frodo's servant jumped at the chance to cook us ''a decent meal'', as he called it, and to my surprise, he proved to be quite a skilled cook. But, of course, my tastes had been greatly simplified since I started to eat at my soldiers' table in the wardrooms some twenty years ago.  
  
Still, it felt good finally get something hot into our stomachs, and the food tasted rather good. I sat with my little friends, silently wondering about the huge amounts of food they were able to eat in the shortest of time. I would have ere fed a whole company of grown Men than these two. And the more they ate, the higher their spirits became, and soon even the Dwarf was shaking and grunting with surpressed laughter over their silly jokes and funny songs. They were irresistible in their merriment.  
  
We did not hurry to bed afterwards, for we expected to have all the night to sleep in, and we did not mean to go on again until the evening of the next day. So I remained with Meriadoc and Peregrin at the fire, listening to the funny tales of the latter about his three sisters (all of them older than him), his father, the Thain of the Great Smials (what ever that might be; apparently, he was called ''The Took'' under less formal circumstances, and their family seemed to have great respect among their own people), and, most proudly, about the brother of his great-great-great-grandfather, one Bandobras Took, called the Bullroarer, who was said to be so huge (for a Halfling, at least), that he could ride a horse and defeated an Orc-band in some strange place they called the Northfarthing.  
  
''Bullroarer charged the ranks of the goblins of Mount Gram in the Battle of the Green Fields'', Peregrin told, swelling with pride, and calling the Orcs goblins, for a reason I could not understand, ''and knocked their king Golfimbul's head clean off with a wooden club. It sailed a hundred yards through the air and went down a rabbit hole...''2  
  
Both of which was highly unlikely, not to mention that Orcs never had any kings, save the Enemy himself, but the tale was funny and Peregrin clearly enjoyed telling it, and I soon lost count on all those weird names and peoples and places I had never heard of anyway, more so when Meriadoc joined in with his own little tales, concerning his home with the ridiculous name of Brandy Hall and his father, who seemed to be some sort of chieftain in Buckland, part of the land of the Halflings.  
  
I listened more to the merry sound of their clear little voices; it was so light and heartwarming as the voice of untroubled children, though I kept reminding myself that in the measure of their own race they were both grown men. Well, at least Meriadoc was, having passed the important age border of 33, while Peregrin was still considered ''tweenaged'', as they said, meaning that he was not fully adult yet.  
  
Mithrandir and the Dwarf, it seemed, knew a great many of the people and places the Halflings were talking about, and even Legolas joined us after he had his fill from the old trees, listening with a fond smile.  
  
Only Aragorn was silent and restless. After a while he left the fire-site and wandered on to the ridge; there he stood in the shadow of a tree, mimicking the custom of Elves, looking out southwards and eastwards, with his head posed as if he was listening. Legolas noticed this and he, too, rose gracefully, leaving the others who were still laughing and talking. He joined Aragorn who now returned to the brink of the dell and looked down at us with a scowl on his face.  
  
''What is the matter, Strider?'', the irrepressible Meriadoc called up to him, unconcerned about his obviously foul mood. ''What are you looking for? Do you miss the East Wind?''  
  
If they realized at all who Aragorn truly was, the Halflings seemed not to care for his so-called destiny. It was refreshing.  
  
''No, indeed'', Isildur's Heir answered. ''But I miss something. I have been in the country of Hollin in many seasons. No folk dwell here now, but many other creatures live here at all times, especially birds. Yet now all things but you are silent.''  
  
He did not add ''and you should be silent, too'', but it could be heard in the undertone all too clearly. Not that it mattered to the Halflings, though. Warnings of this sort were useless with them, as I came to learn.  
  
''There is no sound for miles about us'', Legolas affirmed, still listening, his brows knitted in confusion, ''and your voices seem to make the ground echo. I do not understand it.''  
  
Mithrandir looked up with sudden interest.  
''But what do you guess is the reason?'', he asked. ''Is there more in it than the surprise at seeing *four* hobbits, not to mention the rest of us, where people are so seldom seen or heard?''  
  
''I hope that is it'', answered Aragorn, while Legolas simply shrugged, not being familiar with this land. ''But I have a sense of watchfulness and fear, that I have never had here before.''  
  
''Then we must be more careful'', said Mithrandir. ''If you bring a Ranger with you, it is better to listen to him, more so if the Ranger is Aragorn. We must stop talking aloud, rest quietly and set the watch.''  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
This put a sudden ent to the young Halflings' merriment, to our all dismay - yet we all knew that our path was full of peril, and had to trust Aragorn who knew these lands better than any one, even Mithrandir. So we all went to sleep, save Samwise, for it was his turn that day to take first watch. Aragorn, though his would not came 'till sunset, joined him. The others fell asleep, myself including.  
  
During that rest, I had a dream again. Not one of the nightmares that had haunted me ever since Osgiliath, nor one of those disturbing visions, sent by the Ring, in-between sleep and awakeness. It was a real dream, as I had not dreamt since the Riddle of Doom came to me, after Faramir and I had escaped the ruins of Osgiliath.  
  
A truly disturbing dream it was - a queer one, as young Peregrin would have said. It seemed to me that I was floating on the waves of Anduin, lying in a small boat of strange fashion, with a high prow. It was glimmering in the water, which filled it to the rim, and I could not move as if the water itself would hold me down. The horn of Gondor lay upon my lap, broken in two halves, and I was not wearing the Stone, nor the silver clasp of the Lady Éowyn.  
  
The water brought me towards my city that seemed in flames again, yet not fallen, and a great battle was roaring around her broken walls and all upon the fields of Pelennor. Immediately, I began to seek out my brother, yet I could never find him. There were many Riders of Rohan, carrying the banner of Théoden King, yet led by the young Éomer, fighting like only the fierce, gold-haired warriors of the Riddermark can fight.  
  
And there came a company of the Rangers of the North, grim and dour-handed Men clad in rough grey garb, sweeping through the dark hosts of Mordor like a storm. And they carried a great banner with the White Tree of Gondor; but seven stars were about it, and a high crown above it, the signs of Elendil that no lord had borne for years beyond count. And the stars flamed in the sunlight for they were wrought of gems; and the crown was bright in the morning, for it was wrought of mithril and gold.  
  
A great fight broke out when they reached the battlefield, and among them I saw a tall man, clad in shining armor that gleamed in the sunlight like pure gold - yet he wore no helm, just a bright white star upon his brow, and his long, dark hair was bound together on the nape of his neck and floated behind him like the horsetail crest on Éomer's helm. He fought like Oromë the Great in the Battle of the Valar, with deadly force and fierce will, yet his moves were graceful as if he would perform a sacral dance to celebrate Death. His long sword never failed and his hands and the bright-burnished vambrances upon his arms were gleaming with the black blood of Orcs.  
  
I watched his terrible dance with awe, for never had I seen someone fight in such cold fury before, and I was wandering who this mighty warrior could be and what lucky fortune brought him to the aid of my belaguered city in the last possible moment. For so great was the force of his wrath that all the other Men around him came to new strength and finally they were able to press the dark armies of the Enemy away from the walls.  
  
Then he turned to me and I saw his face. Pale it was and yet flushed from the heat of battle, as I had seen it before only in the moments of our shared passion. For no Man it was, but Elladan Elrondion himself, my soft-speaking, gentle lover, as I had never seen him: grim and vengeful and full of wrath. And his clear grey eyes looked at me over the battlefield, and there was deep love in them again, and I heard his beloved voice in my heart, so clearly as if I were not lying helplessly in that overflooded boat but in the safety of his arms once more:  
''I promised you, meleth-nin, that I would protect you and all that is yours, as long as there is life in me still. 'Tis an oath I shall never break.''  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
I jerked awake with a shudder, cold sweat bathing my forehead. The others were still asleep, thank the Valar, giving me a chance to recover from that weird dream ere I had to face them. The silence had grown while I slept; it could almost be touched by bare hands. Even Samwise felt it, of that I was sure, for I could see his eyes wandering around nervously.  
  
I sat up to take a look around, too, sweeping the sweat from my brow. That dream was so vivid, I could understand now why the cursed gift of dreaming took such a heavy toll from both my father and my brother. Still, I could not figure out its meaning.  
  
Not fully, at least. The banner itself was easy to understand: whether I liked or not, Aragorn would come to Minas Tirith and claim the throne. And the people shall follow him into a glorious battle to fight the Enemy and save our city. But where were my father and my brother? And why had Elladan to come and fight in my stead? Was I going to die ere I could reach my home or was I captured and rendered helpless?  
  
Why was Éomer leading the Rohirrim? He is only the Third Marshal of the Mark, and leading a host to aid Gondor was the right and the duty of the Crown Prince. What was going to happen to Théodred - or had it happened already, only that we did not get any tidings of it yet?  
  
My heart was heavy with dark foreboding and I felt a great urge to set on right there, to rush to the aid of my home. I cursed bitterly my tardiness that kept me in Imladris, even after the Council of Elrond. I should not have waited for the scouts to return. I should have left right after the Council, even if it had meant to part from my lover in anger. Then he would be free, and I were halfways at home, where I was sorely needed.  
  
''Would you truly want for us to part in anger?'', the soft voice in my heart asked. I had not realized I was clutching at the Stone again. ''Would you rather be free and out of my reach?''  
  
I could not answer - I had not figured out yet how to answer him -, but it was not necessary, either. I more felt than heard his quiet laughter - and then he was gone. He knew me too well already, and his heart was so gracious, my thoughtlessness could not truly reach it. He simply accepted me with all what I was and who I was. This was a gift beyond imagination; one I only learnt to appreciate much too late.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * *  
  
I could hear my own joints creaking as I shifted position... sleeping on the ground became less and less comfortable with every passing year. Old injuries arose again with remembered pain, and my limbs got stiff from the hard ground and the wetness. I had grown accustomed to having a tent, even on the battlefield, it seemed.  
  
Samwise and Aragorn sat still at the dying fire, their faces tense. It seemed, I did not sleep that long, after all. Not long enough for such a long and disturbing dream, at least, one would think. Dead silence was around us, and over all hung a clear blue sky, as the Sun rode up from the East. It remainded me of the early mornings in Edoras, after a long, merry night spent with beer and songs in the company of the Riders of Rohan, and I wondered whether I would sit with Théodred and Éomer at the table again.  
  
Yet away in the south a dark patch appreared, and grew, and drove north like flying smoke in the wind. I suddenly felt very awake... somewhere I had seen something like this... or hear about it? I could not remember.  
  
''What is that, Strider? It do not look like a cloud'', said the Halfling in whisper to Aragorn, his eyes big and round and frightened.  
  
My King-to-be gave no answer at first. He was gazing intently at the sky; but before long Samwise could see for himself what was approaching. Flocks of birds, flying at great speed, were wheeling and circling, and traversing all the land as if they were searching for something; and they were steadily drawing nearer.  
  
Cold recognition hit me at once. Never had I seen such birds before, I knew that now, but I had heard about them from Théodred, during my last, short visit in Edoras.3 The Crown Prince of the Mark had told me about the dark, evil birds that came out of Isengard in great flocks, roaming the green fields like locusts, ever spying, ever carrying tidings to their treacherous Master.  
  
I threw myself flat to the ground, not caring for my hurt limbs. We must not be seen, so much I understood. I only hoped Aragorn would understand, too. He was a Ranger, after all.  
  
''Lie flat and still!'', hissed Aragorn, pulling Samwise down into the shade of a holly-bush; for a whole regiment of birds had broken away suddenly from the main host, and came, flying low, straight towards the ridge. They seemed like they were a kind of crow of large size. As they passed overhead, in so dense a throng that their shadow followed them darkly over the ground below, one harsh croak was heard.  
  
And my heart filled with worry, for I understood that our quest was followed not by the spies of the Enemy only, but by the greedy eyes of Curunír, too, who knew these lands all too well, and whose fortress stood tall and invicible in the middle of our path - well, at least in the middle of *my* way home.  
  
Not until the evil-looking birds had dwindled into the distance, north and west, and the sky was again clear, would Aragorn rise, and in this case I found better to follow his unspoken lead. Then he sprang up and went and waked Mithrandir.  
  
''Regiments of black crows are flying over all the land between the Mountains and the Greyflood'', he told the wizard, ''and they have passed over Hollin.''  
  
''They are not natives here'', Legolas added; when did he awaken and leave his sleeping place high up on one of the ancient trees to join them, I could not tell. ''They are *crebain* out of Fangorn and Dunland. I do not know what they are about, for they never nested in our woods and so I know their tongue not. Possibly there is some trouble away south from which they are fleeing.''  
  
''They are spying out the land'', I told them. ''For Isengard and its master, Curunír the traitor.''  
  
They all turned to me with surprised faces. As if I could not know things *they* did not.  
  
''What?'', I asked, irritated. ''Just because you all seem to think I am a fool, I do not forget what I have learnt in all those years spent in battle against the Enemy.''  
  
''And *what* exactly have you learnt of the *crebain*, Boromir?'', Aragorn asked in that silky voice that usually meant trouble. He could not know, of course, that after having grown up as the son of Denethor, such methods could not frighten me any more.  
  
''I learnt in Rohan, that these birds nest in Isengard and serve as the spies of Curunír'', I answered, locking eyes with him. ''And I think we ought to move again this evening. Hollin is no longer wholesome for us. It is watched.''  
  
''And in that case so is the Redhorn Gate'', said Mithrandir, deliberately leaving the dismay on Aragorn's face unnoticed; the would-be-King of Gondor did not like suggestions, unless he asked for them, ''and how we can get over that without being seen, I cannot image. But we will think of that when we must.'' Then he turned to me. ''As for moving as soon as it is dark, I am afraid that you are right.''  
  
This was the very first time, I think, that the wizard had addressed me directly, ever since we left Imladris. And the very first time through all those years that we had known each other that he *agreed* with me in any thing. He did not like it, I could see that much, but at least he was man enough to give me credit where I deserved it.  
  
My King-to-be scowled a little - he did not like it either when decisions were made without his opinion being asked first; even less so when *I* had a word to say in the matter -, yet there was little he could do about it when I was so clearly right.  
  
''Luckily our fire made little smoke, and had burned low before the *crebain* came'', he growled. ''It must be put out and never lit again.''  
  
I rolled my eyes, for he truly did not need to tell me *that*. I might have spent most of my time on open battlefields, but I *did* get out with my brother and the Rangers of Ithilien often enough to know my way around the wildernes. A sharp answer was ready on my lips, when I caught the highly amused look in Legolas' eyes. I knew not whether his amusement was for Aragorn alone or for our childish banter, but it took the wind off my sail.  
''The Halflings shall not be pleased to hear this'', was all what I said.  
  
Which was, of course, an understatement.  
  
''Well if that is not a plague and a nuisance!'', cried Peregrin in dismay when I broke him the news: no fire, and a move again by night, as soon as he woke in the late afternoon. ''All because of a pack of crows! I had looked forward to a real good meal tonight: something hot.''  
  
The devotion of the Halflings to food was truly amazing.  
  
''Well, you can go on looking forward'', said Mithrandir, not looking too happy either, though because of a different reason, I guess. ''There may be many unexpected feasts ahead of you. For myself I should like a pipe to smoke in comfort, and warmer feet. However, we are certain of one thing at any rate: it will get warmer as we get south.''  
  
''Not soon enough'', I murmured to Legolas. ''I feel the coming of snow in my bones. It will catch us ere we could climb that pass.''  
  
''That is my fear, too'', the Elf nodded; then he added with a mischievous spark in his eyes: ''Yet even another night walk is welcome for me, if it means that I could be spared of the ill-smelling smoke of pipe-weed.''  
  
We both laughed quietly, being the only two members of the Company not hooked to that stinking leaf. Then he sobered again and grabbed my arm.  
  
''Come'', he said. ''If we must stay put, let us make a comfortable nest for the hobbits. For though remarkable tough little fellows they are, their feet are already sore from the road, and they still seem cold.''  
  
I followed his gaze and saw Frodo shivering, Samwise grim and worried and Peregrin clearly miserable. Not even Meriadoc had a smile on his face. So I simply nodded and helped Legolas make a warm sleeping nest of blankets and spare clothes and even rubbed Peregrin's back to make him warm again.  
  
He looked up to me thankfully, and all of a sudden he did not seem to be a child to me any more.  
''Thank you'', he said quietly. ''I regret being a nuisance.''  
''You are not'', I told him. ''Your body is much smaller and cannot keep the warmth so well, that is all. Rest now, while you can.''  
  
He obediently went to sleep again, while I sat next to him and Meriadoc, dreams blissfully avoiding me this time. We remained in hiding all day. The dark birds passed over now and again; but as the westering sun grew red, they disappeared southwards.  
  
I watched them fly towards the fields of Calenardhon and wondered what Curunír might be planning. And more than ever did I want to be back in my own land, to be able to aid our valiant friends of the Mark. For was greatly worried about the safety of Rohan's borders, about my good friend, the King's only son and about the Lady Éowyn whom I gave my promise; and I asked myself in doubt what of that promise I would ever be able to fulfill.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
At dusk we set out, and turning now half east we steered our course towards Caradhras, which far away still glowed faintly red in the last light of the vanished Sun. One by one, white stars sprang forth as the sky faded, yet not even their pure light could lift the worries' weight from my heart. For I could remember what Elladan told me of the Redhorn Pass: how his mother was waylaid there by Orcs and captured, and how she never truly recovered from the wound she had received back then, in spite of Elrond's labours and healing skills, and I was wandering if we were going straight into the same trap.  
  
I had to admit that the Lord of Imladris was still a riddle for me. He clearly disliked me, in favor of Aragorn who was his foster son, after all, not to mention the future husband of his daughter, yet he - reluctantly though - accepted my being in Elladan's life. Not that his rejection would have kept my strong-headed lover fom me, for that Elladan was much too stubborn, yet his parting words to me were so strange... almost as if he had accepted me in his family.  
  
Which was impossible, of course, for I had to return home, where such bonds would never be accepted, and I had to father an heir to our House - and still, at that moment he was almost fatherly to me. Certainly more so than my own father had ever been to Faramir. Elves are a strange folk, and Half-Elves even stranger, I guess, having both Elven and mortal blood in their veins.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
Guided by Aragorn, we struck a good path. It looked like the remains of an ancient road, that had once been broad and well-planned, from Hollin to the mountain-pass... mayhap built by the Elves who once dwelt in Hollin. The Moon, now at the full, rose over the mountains, and cast a pale light in which the shadows of stones were black. Many of them looked to have been worked by hands, though now they lay tumbled and ruinous in a bleak, barren land. It had been ages ago that the Elves left this land, and, as Legolas said earlier, only the stones still remembered them.  
  
We walked without a rest till the cold chill hour before the first stir of dawn, and the Moon was low. I felt weary again and looked up the sky to get my bearings, as I learnt in Ithilien from the Rangers. Suddenly I saw - no... more felt - a shadow pass over the high stars, as if for a moment they faded and then flashed out again. The icy grip of fear took my heart again, and I saw that Frodo, too, shivered.  
  
''Did you see anything pass over?'', he whispered to Mithrandir, who was just ahead.  
  
''No, but I felt it, whatever it was'', the wizard answered. ''It may be nothing, only a whisp of a thin cloud.''  
  
''It was moving fast, then'', muttered Aragorn, ''and not with the wind.''  
  
I resisted the urge to double over and scream as I felt the death-cold touch of the Shadow upon my heart again. Instead, I grabbed the Stone desperately, as if it were the hand of my lover and called out to him for help in my mind wordlessly, though I could not hope to reach him. I never had before; it had always been him to reach out to me when he sensed something wrong through our bond.  
  
For a moment, there was nothing but cold, terrifying and empty darkness. Then I heard his soft voice in my heart, as clear as I had heard it in that strange dream earlier.  
''Have I not promised to protect you and what is yours to the end of your days and beyond? Trust me, meleth-nin, and darkness will not befall you again.''  
  
And then I could breathe again.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
End note:  
I hope you have found some answers to the questions you asked in the reviews. Not all of them, of course - some cards I still have to keep holding close to my chest.   
Since this one went so swiftly, I promise to be working on updating the other stories, too. Count with Glorfindel continuing his tale in a few days.  
  
Soledad  
  
  
  
1 Further details about this chieftain of the Dúnlendings will be given in ''Frozen Flover''.  
2 Quoted losely after ''The Hobbit''.  
3 In ''The White Lady of Rohan'' 


	5. Chapter 4: Hollin - Hunches of Truth

OF SNOW AND STONE AND WOLVES  
by Soledad Cartwright  
  
Disclaimer:  
The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun.  
  
Rating: PG - 13, for heavy angst stuff and implied m/m interaction.  
  
//means Elven speech. I still cannot translate anything into Quenya or Sindar. Any volunteers? I'd give the credits those who deserve...//  
  
Author's notes:  
  
Many of you have asked if Boromir is ever going to find out about Elladan's sacrifice. Well, if you can remember, it was Elladan's explicit wish that he would *not*, because he did not want to load even more guilt upon Boromir. On the other hand, of course, he is travelling with people now who like to talk about him behind his back - which is always a somewhat risky thing.   
  
Anyway, for the next two days they are still wandering in Hollin. That might give them plenty of opportunity to clear some questions - if they are able to.  
  
Deborah asked me how the Shielding Stone - and the bond between Boromir and Elladan through it - actually worked. I honestly cannot say. Since the Stone is not a canon device but my own idea entirely, I make this up as I go on with the story. In case you are curious, I conceived the idea upon the description of Boromir's clothing on the Council of Elrond (in FOTR), where the silver collar with the white stone was simply a piece of jewelry - and never mentioned again. It seemed to me pretty, so I gave it a funktion that served the purpose of my series rather nicely.  
  
Oh, and one more thing: This chapter was partially ''inspired'' by other fanfic writers who regularly make some disgusting monster out of Thranduil, Mirkwood's King. Until I come to write his entire story, I felt the need to say something to his defense.  
  
Thanks for the reviews. Keep up feeding my muse, please!  
  
  
CHAPTER FOUR: HOLLIN - HUNCHES OF TRUTH  
  
Boromir's strangled cry - more a wordless screem than aught else - alarmed the other members of the Company. Gandalf, Aragorn and Legolas ran to him at once and found him sunk onto his knees, eyes wide open yet seeing naught, his hand desperately clutching the white stone adorning his silver collar.  
  
Gandalf squatted down before him, glaring sternly into the far-away eyes, his face becoming increasingly worried. Then he stood again and shook his head in defeat.  
  
''We shall have to wait till he comes back on his own.''  
  
''What happened?'' asked Legolas. ''It seems to me as if the Shadow that passed over us had affected him greatly. He grabbed the Stone at that very moment. Do you know what it might have been, Mithrandir?''  
  
Gandalf nodded, somewhat reluctantly.  
''I cannot be sure... yet I believe I know. Let us not speak of it, till we are securely over the Pass.''  
  
''But why did it have such a great effect on Boromir while it merely gave *us* a dread feeling?'', the Elf asked. ''Surely he is not less steadfast than any of us? Though, I must admit, I still am at a loss if it comes to mortal Men. They seldom react as I would expect them to do.''  
  
''He had faced the evil of Minas Morgul every single day of his life'', Gandalf answered, his eyes full of sorrow as he kept watching the face of the younger Man. ''Who nows what terrors he had met during all those years spent on the battlefield against the forces of Mordor? I seldom visited Minas Tirith during his lifetime, and even then, I only met his brother most of the time. Elrond told me ere we departed from Imladris that he is in grave peril - more so than any of us, save the Ring-bearer.''  
  
''He has been touched by the Shadow earlier'', Legolas murmured. ''I could feel it already when we first met in the woods, approaching Imladris. Yet he spoke little of what happened to him during the battle of Osgiliath.''  
  
''What I have heard of it, and that was not from him, seems clear enough'', replied Gandalf. ''Sauron sent the Nazgúls against Gondor's forces, to scatter them in horror - at least one of them, ere they were sent out to hunt down the Ring and its Bearer. That much is certain of what the Eagle told me.''  
  
''Can it be...'', Aragorn hesitated, not quite ready to speak about things of such evil, ''can he have been touched by the Black Breath?''  
  
''Almost certainly'', Gandalf sighed, ''for he is a brave and stubborn warrior, one who stands his ground when all others flee, ready to face an enemy he cannot defeat. Were he a Man of brooding nature, he might have submitted its terror already and lost his mind. His short temper may prove to be a blessing, though.''  
  
''It would not be enough'',said Legolas quietly, ''had Elladan not performed the Rite of Protection and bound his soul to Boromir's. I can feel the pull of the Ring on his heart as we speak. The darkness that befell him in Osgiliath, makes him vulnerable for the evil lure of the One. I am worried about him.''  
  
''Why?'', Aragorn asked. ''Can the Shielding Stone not protect him? Is that not the very purpose it was returned from the Blessed Realm for?''  
  
''You ask *me*? A mere Wood-Elf?'', Legolas said with unusual bitterness in his voice. ''What do *I* know of the Jewels of Aman? My ancestors had never sailed over the Sea, they saw not the light of the Two Trees of Valinor. We are Moriquendi, Dark-Elves, who know naught but the trees and waters and winds. Our roots in the soil of Arda are deep. We defended it during the Dark Years, yet our own Kin considers us less than *your* kindred. *You* are the one who have descended from the evening star1 - teach *you* me about the Jewels of the Blessed Realm!''  
  
The hobbits, having gathered around them, exchanged worried - and highly confused - looks, and even Gimli glared in surprise at the Elf, who was nearly shaking with cold fury. No-one understood what made Legolas so mad all of the sudden, except mayhap Gandalf, who knew more about the animosities among Elves than the Fair Folk themselves.  
  
''Easy, easy, my good Elf'', he said soothingly. ''Are we not all friends and allies here, enemies of the one Enemy? No-one had belittled the valiant struggles of your people to keep their homes safe...''  
  
''Did they not?'', asked Legolas bitterly. ''Have you ever heard them speak about my father, Mithrandir? Have you heard the Men of Dale laugh over him and call him a greedy ogre? Have you heard the Eldar tell amused stories about him hoarding gold and jewels and having made war against the Dwarves for even more of it?''  
  
''Why?'', Gimli grunted. ''Has he *not* made war against us for gold? Has he not thrown *my* father and his company into the deepest dungeons under your palace?''  
  
''He has'', Legolas admitted glumly, ''and that was a grave mistake. Yet we were desperate at that time, Gimli, no matter what merriment your father might have seen in our palace. Mirkwood cannot bring forth much food, save the deers we hunt and some berries, and we have no mines, either. We needed weapons, for we were besieged from all sides, by Orcs and trolls and the giant spiders and fought with our backs against the wall. And no-one would give us aught without paying a high price for it. Yet we cannot live on songs and thin air only!''  
  
He took a deep breath to soothe himself.  
''My father has his faults and he is certainly not always right in his decisions, but he only wants to protect his home and his people. 'Tis easy not to err when one sits in the safety of Imladris and the hidden power that protects the dale2. My father has no such power. We only have our skills and weapons to protect ourselves against the forces of Dol Guldur. And do consider, son of Glóin, what might become of Dale, or even Erebor, should Mirkwood fall. Our bows protect *your* backs as well as they do protect us!''  
  
He turned away and climbed up a nearby tree with cat-like crace and amazing speed. Gimli looked after him doubtfully, regretting to have brought up that old quarrel between their fathers.  
  
Yet ere he could have followed the Elf, in a helpless intention to apologize, Gandalf grabbed his shoulder.  
  
''Let him alone, my good Dwarf. 'Tis dangerous to bother a furious Elf, even for you. He will come to his senses in a short time, after his wrath cooled a little. Those of the Silvan folk are known of their short tempers, but they fume not long.''  
  
''Gandalf!'', someone tugged on his grey robe. The wizard looked down and saw two round brown eyes blinking worriedly at him in the twilight. ''Gandalf, what is happening to Boromir?''  
  
''He is fine, Pippin'', the wizard smiled; it surprised him how fond the younger hobbits had become of Boromir, but he considered them a healthy influence on the grim warrior. ''Do not worry about him. He... shall return to us, shortly.''  
  
''Should we not remove his hand from the Stone?'' Aragorn asked.  
  
Gandalf shook his head, silently wondering about the foolish ideas Men - even wise and experienced Men like Aragorn - could bring forth sometimes. How could Aragorn even consider to break such a delicate bond? Not even the Elves were full aware of the true nature of such connections. Not even Elrond would have risked such a step, unless in the gravest peril.  
  
''Nay'', he said, ''it could be dangerous to break the bond by force... for him as well as for Elladan. We must wait till they end it on their own, or else we might seriously harm them.''  
  
''But he is draining strength from Elladan, is he not?'' pressed Aragorn stubbornly. ''Could it not become just as dangerous?''  
  
''It could, and it is'', the wizard agreed, ''but if Elladan is willing to take that risk, 'tis not our right to hinder him. 'Tis hard enough for him as it is, their bond being one-sided; if we interfere, it could be broken for good, and I cannot foresee what the consequences would be for him.''  
  
''Still, I believe we should take that risk'', Aragorn persisted, ''or else they both might end up dead.''  
  
Gandalf glared at him from under his bushy eyebrows and all of a sudden his eyes grow cold, and when he answered, he turned into the Elven tongue that neither Gimli nor the hobbits could understand, save mayhap Frodo, who was deep on his own thoughts and did not listen to him.  
  
//Are you certain, Aragorn, that 'tis concern for your foster brother that is speaking from your heart? Or else is it jealousy that the son of Denethor had received a gift you had been longing for all your life and still have to reach yet?//  
  
Aragorn gave no answer, only his face hardened, and he turned away, the words of the wizard hitting a sore spot deep inside his heart.  
  
Pippin looked from one Man to the other, utterly confused about the whole thing - first Legolas' unexpected outburst, than this fight between Gandalf and Strider who, it seemed, wanted to keep things among themselves - yet, still worried about his new friend who seemed like a gentle giant in his eyes, a giant who still had the heart to talk and jest and make fun with them, listen to their little songs and funny tales that must have seemed so small and unimportant for him. And now, his giant lay defeated and no-one seemed to truly care for him, not even Gandalf.  
  
Pippin leaned towards Boromir, placing his small, warm hand upon the big, clammy cold one that still clutched the Stone desperately, and called to the far-away Man with his clear, frightened little voice.  
  
''Boromir? Lord Boromir, sir, 'tis time to come back. Can you hear me, Boromir? Came back to us, please, sir!''  
  
''Pippin, no!'', Gandalf shouted, pale with fear that the young hobbit, in his well-meant ignorance, might have interfered with something far beyond his understanding and that they might lose not only Boromir but Elladan as well due his thoughtless handling.  
  
But to his amazement and great relief, Boromir seemed to have heard Pippin's desperate summoning. He blinked, a little confused, then gave a quiet groan and finally let the Stone go. His eyes focussed again, locked with Pippin's and a faint, regretful smile appearad in the corner of his mouth.  
  
''Thank you, Master Peregrin'', he said, rising to his feet, and tousled Pippin's curly hair gently. Then he turned to the wizard. ''What happened?''  
  
''We are not certain'', Gandalf said. ''Something passed high over our heads, nearly as high as the stars. We believe...''  
  
''It was the Nameless Fear that dwells in Minas Morgul'', Boromir interrupted. ''No-one who ever felt its touch can forget it again. Look at Frodo; he most certainly felt it, too.''  
  
They both looked at the pained, pale face of the hobbit, who wrapped himself tightly in his cloak and seemed to shiver, regardless all of Sam's efforts to make him feel better. Boromir shook his head in helpless sorrow.  
  
''We should go on, Mithrandir, and not rest till sunrise. The road shall be more closely watched with every passing hour, and the snow is coming. We have to hurry.''  
  
''That I know'', said Gandalf, shooting an irritated look towards the tree where Legolas was sitting, simmering with anger, ''but alas! We have a very agitated Elf among us, who refuses to share our company right now.''  
  
Boromir followed his gaze and saw the Elf, sitting high up in the tree, on a dangerously thin branch, or so it seemed for the untrained mortal eye, with a face as cold and hard and stubborn that it would have put even his father, the Lord Denethor to shame. But again, he was used to handle his father in all of his moods, which gave him here an advantage the others might not have.  
  
''Let me speak with him'', he offered.  
  
The wizard knitted his bushy eyebrows, looking like an irritated grandfather whose patientce towars a particularly unnerving grandson just run out.  
''You think you can get him down from that tree?''  
  
''I can try'', shrugged Boromir. ''I shall go for the one thing nearly always works with my father: appealing to his responsibility.''  
  
''Then do try'', Gandalf sighed. ''Wood-Elves could be the most stubborn people I have ever met... at times even worse than Dwarves.''  
  
''Hey!'', Gimli exclaimed, but the wizard listened not. He already went to call for Aragorn and the hobbits, instructing them to get ready for going till Boromir tries to talk Legolas down from his damned tree.  
  
The Elf sat motionless up in the tree. He gave no sign that he had noticed the approaching Man, though Boromir had no doubt that he had. His ears were better than those of a fox, after all - even better than those of other Elves.  
  
''Legolas'', he called quietly, standing under the tree, ''we have to go.''  
  
''Then go'', the Elf answered, not looking at him. ''I shall catch up with you later. I am lighter on my feet than any of you.''  
  
''I doubt not'', said Boromir, ''but you are needed *now*. To watch our backs and protect the little ones.''  
  
''You are a born warrior, son of Gondor'', the Elf replied snippishly, ''you can protect them awhile without me.''  
  
''I can'', Boromir agreed, ''yet I have not your keen eyes and good ears. In truth, the Halflings say, I go blundering along, making a noise like an oliphaunt - what ever *that* might be -, so they cannot hear a thing through it.''  
  
To his surprise, the Elf laughed quietly.  
''They meant a múmak'', he explained. ''Not that any of them had ever seen one, mean you. They are in their fairy tales only.''  
  
''A múmak?'', Boromir shook his head, not knowing whether he should feel insulted or amused. ''A múmak, indeed... They should be glad to know those beasts only from their tales!''  
  
''I fear they shall lose their innocence soon enough'', Legolas sighed, then he unexpectedly jumped down from the tree and landed on his feet, as smoothly as a big cat. ''But you are right, my friend. We shall go on. And they need me.''  
  
''We all do'', Boromir replied, wondering about his quick success. He had been prepared to have to argue with the Elf a lot longer, but apparently Wood-Elves were as quick to forget as they were quick to anger. ''Why were you so angry?  
  
''I would rather not talk about it, if you do not mind'', said Legolas, gathering his weapons from under the tree. '''Tis a long and, it seems, fruitless quarrel among Elves, and I let my anger lash out to Estel. I was wrong... but he can be maddening at times.''  
  
''One day'', Boromir said, ''you should tell me about it.''  
  
''Mayhap one day I shall'', Legolas smiled, ''but right now, as you said, we have to go.''  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
Nothing further happened that night. We went on, stumbling in the darkness, without a word. My little friends kept close to me, and often would I see the big, curious eyes of young Peregrin watching me, searching my face for something - I know not what for. He must have caught something from Mithrandir or Aragorn while I was... away. I have to ask him later, I thought, yet my mind was still elswhere, lingering on the memory of my lover's voice and the strange dreams that had come to me during our last rest.  
  
And the Nameless Fear. I still could feel its icy touch on my heart, the dread that made me call out in despair to my beloved - and, for the first time since he gifted the Stone upon me, I had reached him on my own. I always believed I could not do it, for while he was bound to me by choice, I was not bound to him, yet now, though by great effort, I could truly reach him. It was overwhelming: great relief and also great joy - one I never thought I shall know one day.  
  
The next morning dawned even brighter than before. But the air was chill again; already the wind was turning back towards the East, and the feel of the snow coming weighed more and more heavily on my heart.  
  
How were the little ones supposed to go on when the Pass will be blocked by snow? They do not even wear boots, and as hardened their woolly little feet might be, they shall hardly be able to walk through four-feet-high snow walls that are know to build up during storms in the Misty Mountains. How should they be able to climb the Pass that would be a challenge even for a grown Man in the time of winter?  
  
''Can you feel the coming of snow in your bones?'', I asked Legolas, who put down his bundle next to me when we finally hold on for our day break.  
  
He nodded, bright eyes sparkling.  
''More than you believe. One of my ancestors was said to have the skill to let the rain fall at will. I know not if 'tis true, yet we always can tell the change of weather... all of my family.''  
  
''Are you not concerned about the Halflings?'', I asked.  
He seemed to be good friends with them, as well, and I wanted to share my worries about them with someone who would at least listen to me. For Mithrandir and Aragorn seemed only to have eyes for the Ring-bearer and his servant.  
  
He looked at me with those bright eyes, deep green as the young leaves in a forest at springtime.  
''I am. But we cannot take an other road - not one with pess peril, it is. We shall have to help the hobbits.''  
  
''How?'', said I. ''Unless we carry them there is not much we can do for them. We cannot change the weather or hold back the snow from falling.''  
  
''For awhile they shall be able to go on their own; they are tough little creatures'', the Elf answered, letting down his long, auburn hair that had become somewhat loosened during last night's walk, and combing it swiftly and absent-mindedly with a wooden comb; then he started to rebraid it, even more tightly than it used to be, without paying any attention to what his long, skilled fingers were doing, seemingly on their own - it was an amazing sight. ''But we might have to carry them when it becomes too much, even for their brave little hearts. Can you do it?''  
  
''That and more'', I answered, a little irritated. Why have Elves to doubt on Men's abilities all the time, I cannot understand.  
  
He must have noticed the rising of my temper for he smiled.  
''Forgive me. I meant no offense. So you shall take care of the younger ones, I presume?''  
  
''Of course'', I said, surprised by the bitterness in my own voice. ''Or do you believe that Aragorn, or even Mithrandir, shall trust me with the Ring-bearer or his servant?''  
  
He considered the answer for a moment, while his fingers worked with amazing speed, waving his braids into a spotless coronet, so tight and shiny that at the end it looked more like a helmet, made of bronze.  
  
''I guess not'', he finally said, and for once I was thankful for the customary Elven honesty, brutal as at times it might be.  
  
''Do *you* trust me?'', I asked quietly.  
This was a question I intended to ask him ever since we set out on this quest; for though we had travelled together before, during our stay in Imladris that slowly growing trust between us seemingly got lost, and I regretted it.  
  
He looked intently at me with those deep emerald eyes, as if he tried to pry into my heart.  
''I trust your noble intentions'', he finally said, ''and I doubt not that you are determined to do what is right, no matter the costs for you... or any one else.''  
  
''But...?'', I said, for there definitely was a ''but'' following.  
  
''But I am not certain that you can see clearly what is right'', he said bluntly. ''Your heart is troubled, and your mind is focussed on one thing only, which could be dangerous, even if 'tis a good thing you focus on. Like the protection of your people.''  
  
''You speak in riddles'', I said, though I could guess what he meant.  
  
''Well, I am an Elf, and thus an irritating creature in the eyes of Men'', he replied, smiling. ''But you are not the only one among us who has to fight his own heart. We all have to struggle with temptation.''  
  
''Even you?'', I asked, curious, what that coursed Ring might whisper to him in the twilight. What was it that a Wood-Elf could find tempting? Great forests covering Middle-earth again? Being able to talk to trees and hear them answer? Could he not do that already?  
  
He looked at me soberly, youthful carelessness vanishing from his fair face, and I had to remaind myself that I was talking to a creature who was over three thousand years old, regardless of his appearance. It was so easy - and so deceiving - to mistake him for a merry youngling, that I kept forgetting who - and what - he really was.  
  
''Next to you, son of Gondor, I am the one mayhap the strongest tempted, if we forget to count Mithrandir in'', he said. ''You are not the only one who dreams of bringing the lost glory and greatness of your people back. You want the power to keep what is still yours, yet I... You cannot imagine how great the temptation for me is to reclaim what we have already lost, more than a whole age ago.''  
  
''I thought the Ring would be the most perilous for those who already possess great powers'', I said carefully, not wanting to insult him.  
  
Legolas laughed, yet that was a laughter without mirth.  
''Oh it is. But you know very little about the Silvan folk, Boromir; and you know less to naught about me. You cannot believe, not in your worst nightmares, what *I* might become with the One Ring upon my finger.''  
  
''What might you become?'', I asked, truly curious now.  
I had heard how dangerous Wood-Elves could be when they turned wicked, but I always thought it a myth. Apparently, there was more in it that I had been ready to believe.  
  
He shook his head, bright eyed darkening - with fear or desire, I could not say.  
''Little less than the Dark Lord himself'', he said. ''I might be young, by the measure of my own Kin, but there is a power in me that no-one of the Elves who had passed over the Sea and returned possess. Wood-Elves drain their strength from Arda itself, for we never left its soil, and the less removed from the Firstborn we are, the greater the strength in us is.''  
  
''How far are *you* removed?'', I continued asking, amazed by his rarely-seen openness and eager to learn more.  
  
''Four generations only, on my father's side. On my mother's, I know not. She was a Silvan Elf, and the Tree Children made no records of their ancestors.'' He shot me an amused glance, guessing what I might have wanted to ask. ''That is the same generation as Elwing, Elrond's mother3.''  
  
I shook my head. This was confusing. He laughed.  
''Elves are long-living, and I am a late child. All my siblings had been born at the beginning of the Second Age... I came when my parents did not even hope for an other child any more.''  
  
''I thought you were the only child of King Thranduil'', I said, surprised.  
  
His eyes saddened at once.  
''I am - now'', he said; then he stretched. ''As I heard, you have second watch after Estel today. You should rest now. Sleep well.''  
  
''Where are you going?''  
  
''Up to a tree, of course. I am more comfortable there.''  
With that, he left me and ran up a close tree lightly and vanished among the grey branches, blending in with his grey-green cloak completely.  
  
A moment later young Peregrin came with some food I was too tired to even recognize. Meriadoc joined us shortly thereafter, and we ate in uncostumary silence. Then the Halflings curled up on their bedrolls and fell asleep within a moment, exhaustion marring their young faces. My heart saddened from the thought what might lie before us yet. They did not belong here. They were so young, they should be in their friendly little land and have a warm chamber and plenty of food and merry songs, not the perils of Caradhras waiting for them.  
  
I shook my head. They were here now, by their own choice, and I could not change that. I got to my feet, walked over to Aragorn and asked him about the setting of watches once more, to make sure I truly was next, then lay down to sleep, resting my hand upon the Stone. Mayhap I would dream of *him* again.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
Having spent most of one's adult life on battlefields has its advantages. One of them being that a trained soldier is able to wake up on his own at any given time when he is on watch duty. Even if this soldier is the one who usually gives the orders.  
  
Therefore I woke up dutifully a few moments ere I was due to take over the watch from Aragorn. I leaned up on my elbow to get my bearings. About twenty feet away I saw him, sitting with Mithrandir, in deep conversation as always. They had something to discuss about all the time, and they *loved* to leave out all the others from their counsels.  
  
Legolas was no where to see; mayhap he had climbed high up in that tree of his; though I doubt not that even from there he could hear every word the two were speaking. But I doubt even less that he would refuse to tell me about. He might have been forthcoming concerning his own affairs, but he would never reveal what he might have heard, probably not even by choice. Having ears as keen as his could be a burden sometimes, I mused.  
  
The Halflings were sleeping, Samwise holding his little master in a careful embrace, like an overprotective mother a sickening child. His devotion towards Frodo was truly moving; I had never seen a friend so faithful before. The two younger ones were snugging together like frightened children, sharing the warmth of their blankets. They seemed so small and helpless - yet I had learnt already how brave all these little people in truth were. I only prayed that the braveness of their hearts would be enough to face the perils of our road.  
  
I strained my ears to hear what Mithrandir and my King-to-be were talking about, for it angered me to no end that they always had to be so secretive. Alas, they kept their voices very low, but it was quiet all around, so I was able to catch most of what they were saying - if not anything. Still it was enough for a good guess.  
  
''...do something'', Aragorn was saying. ''If he goes on... this, Elladan... be able to...''  
He spoke in the Elven tongue, but I had a decent education in my youth, and Faramir's obsession with Elves, which he readily shared with me, finally payed off.  
  
The wizard shook his head; this was the first time I saw him to be truly upset with Aragorn. Usually, they agreed about almost every little thing.  
''...our right to... Even if he drained Elladan's strenth... time he uses... Stone... was the very reason... performed the... of Protection... wanted to shield him.... Shadow. What else... pure love could do that?''  
  
''But he could *die*!'', agitated, Aragorn raised his voice, so I could hear him clearly. ''Elladan is but an Elf, not one of the Valar!''  
  
''Quiet!'', Mithrandir hushed angrily. ''Wake not the others!... was Elladan's choice... the right of Elrond's children. Arwen... chosen the same... ... years ago... are you to question... right to choose likewise? Even if...''  
  
He spotted me being awake and lowered his voice even more, so that I was unable to hear a word of what he said next. But what little I caught made me worried to no end. What price was my lover paying for my protection? Was he in danger, when ever I used the Stone to wear off the darkness?  
  
If 'tis so, I shall never touch it again. It would be wrong to harm him, just to protect myself. I should find the strength to deny myself the comfort of his love, No matter how I shall miss the soothing touch of his soul upon my heart. I am not worth causing him any harm.  
  
Wearily, I got up from my resting place to relieve my King-to-be from watch duty, knowing how hard the rest of our journey would be without the memory of those soft, slow songs that kept the nightmares from me, without the quiet presence of my beloved in my heart. I have just found out how to reach him, and now I had to give up that joy. But I would. I would feel into darkness ere I harmed him.  
  
Walking through our camp, I had the strange feeling of being watched, yet despite my best efforts I could not determine where from. I never saw Legolas, sitting high up the treetop, his eyes locked on me in deep contemplation.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
End note:  
I know, I know - if he could not determine from where he was watched, how could he know that Legolas was watching him. Confused? Fear not, in the next chapter or so you shall see how such a thing is possible!  
  
1 Elrond's father, Eärendil, who was set with his ship, carrying the Silmaril, upon the sky to show the Eldar the way to the West. Aragorn is a late descendant of Elros, Elrond's brother, who had chosen the fate of mortal Men, so, in a sense, Aragorn *is* the descendant of the evening star.  
2 Meaning Vilya, one of the Elven Rings, whose keeper Elrond was. Since Legolas had been Elrond's close friend for almost two thousand years and his lover since Celebrían's departure, it is safe to presume that he knew about the Great Ring being guarded in Imladris.  
3 Counting started by Elu Thingol, King of Doriath. The following generations are: 2. Lúthien Tinúviel, 3. Dior, 4. Elwing and her brothers who were left in the woods by Fëanor's sons to die. There are no canon facts about Legolas' ancestry, of course, I made it up as it served my story best. More details will be revealed when I ever come to write the story about Thranduil. 


	6. Chapter 5: Snow on Caradhras

OF SNOW AND STONE AND WOLVES  
by Soledad Cartwright  
  
Disclaimer:  
The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun.  
  
Rating: PG - 13, for heavy angst stuff and implied m/m interaction.  
  
  
Author's notes:  
  
As you can see, once again I have adopted large parts of dialogue (as well as a few descripting lines) from The Fellowship of the Ring (the book, not the movie). I will continue doing so, as long as our heroes are fighting Caradhras, for this is where the Great Maker gave Boromir the most things to say or do, even more than during Elrond's Council - and I am determined to use every snippet he was given by Tolkien, no matter how little it is. I even gave him some of the others'.   
  
Oh yes! Before someone comes to other thoughts, I am an avid supporter of Frodo-Sam *friendship*. One of the most beautiful friendships in literature - no less and nothing else (no *more* would be inappropriate in this context). I hope we understand each other.  
  
  
CHAPTER FIVE: SNOW ON CARADHRAS  
  
For two more nights we marched on, steadily but ever more slowly as our road wound up into the hills, and the mountains towered up nearer and nearer.  
  
Two nights of deepening darkness and anguish, for I dared not to touch the Stone any more, and the Ring seemed to feel that I was unprotected, for its whispers of blood and glory grew louder and louder in my tortured mind.  
  
The visions came back to me, some in that half-awake state during our march, some in dreams - visions of my brother lying in the Houses of Healing, burning in some unknown fever, drifting further and further from the land of the living; and of my father, sitting upon a burning pyre in the House of the Stewards on the Rath Dínen, clutching on some dark globe with smoldering hands, being slowly consumed by fire, madness in his eyes.  
  
I saw the Lady Éowyn, lying on the battlefield among unnumbered bodies of the slain, clad in shining mail like any warrior of the Mark; but her body was broken and her flow of golden hair soaked in her own blood.  
  
Yet during our daybreaks, when I could resist sleep no more, no matter how much I tried, there was an other dream, that returned every time.  
  
Always the same dream, always the same way.  
  
It showed me the House of Stewards on the Rath Dínen, the stone bed of eternal peace that had been prepared for me since I had reached adulthood. And on that stone bed I saw my lover, dead.  
  
Yet it was not the youthful-looking Elf I had known in his father's house. It was a Man of very high age, still keeping his noble features, laid to peace. Clad in white entirely, snow-white hair braided on his shoulders, hands folded upon his chest, the silver collar with the Stone around his neck, he was sleeping to never awake again.  
  
The dreams were drawing me mad.  
  
* * *  
  
On our second daybreak I unexpectedly found myself next to Legolas when I jerked up from my recent dream of a dead Elladan. The Elf looked at me, so intently, that I almost felt his eyes boring holes into my head.  
  
''What is it, Master Elf?'', I asked, secretly relieved that I can avoid falling asleep again. Besides, talking to Legolas always proved to be interesting, to say the least.  
  
''Estel and Mithrandir want to set on, shortly'', he said, ''but I wish to have a word with you first.''  
  
I nodded. What ever he intended to speak of could be only better than dreaming of my dead lover again. Anything would be better.  
''Speak then.''  
  
''You ceased to touch the Stone two days ago'', he said without preamble.  
  
Well... almost anything. I tried to avoid a direct answer.  
''You think so, my Lord Prince?''  
  
He rolled his eyes, which looked... interesting, by eyes thus bright and elegant as his were.  
''I *know* so, son of Gondor'', he replied with mock formality. ''And I might even know why.''  
  
I raised a questioning eyebrow, still not fully ready to discuss this with him.  
''You might?''  
  
''Elbereth!'', he sighed impatiently. ''Play no games with me, Boromir! We both know you heard something of the dispute between Estel and Mithrandir, so pretend no otherwise. I was sitting in that tree upon your head the whole time, after all. No Man can keep their voices low enough not to wake me. I only want to know how much you understood.''  
  
''Enough'', I answered, finally giving in; he would not stop nagging anyway. ''I speak not the Elven tongue, not very well at least, yet I understood that using the Stone harms Elladan. I wish not to harm him. I cannot give him my heart the way he gave me his, but he is dear to me, nonetheless.''  
  
''Then respect his wishes'', Legolas said soberly. ''He wants to protect you and keep your bond through the Stone, for this is the only thing left him from you. Deny him, and he shall fade away from grief in a shorter time than you believe.''  
  
''So what ever I do, I shall harm him?'', I asked bitterly. ''What a curse I am for any one who comes near to me, indeed!''  
  
The Elf nodded, his eyes thoughtful.  
''There is no way around the pain when one truly is in love'', he said softly, ''yet fulfillment has many ways. Let him choose his.''  
  
''I... I have to think about it'', I said, still uncertain what I should do.  
  
Legolas nodded and stood.  
''Do so. We shall go on in an hour. Make good use of the time what is still left.''  
  
He left me alone, and I tried to clear my troubled mind, to be able to think. Between the whispers of the Ring and my own longing, it had become increesingly difficult. Ere I noticed, my hand began to creep towards the Stone again, driven by the need for some peace. I only realized what I was doing when my fingers touched the smooth surface.  
  
It was warm as always.  
I sighed, deeply ashamed of my weakness - and gave in.  
  
At first I felt nothing, save the soothing of my mind. Then...  
//I missed you, *meleth-nin*//, that gentle voice in my heart said.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
They went on one more night, and on the third morning Caradhras rose before them, a mighty peak, tipped with snow like silver, but with sheer naked sides, dull-red as if stained with blood.  
Pippin shivered involuntarily and shot a worried look towards Boromir, who gave him an encouraging grin.  
  
''Fear not , Master Peregrin'', he murmured, ''Legolas and I shall take care of the two of you.''  
  
The Elf nodded in agreement, and the two youngest hobbits grinned, thankful and relieved. The others were less content, though. There was a black look in the sky, and the sun was wan. The wind had gone now round to the north-east.  
  
Boromir snuffed the air and looked back.  
''Winter deepens behind us'', he said quietly to Gandalf. ''The heights away north are whiter than they were; snow is lying far down their shoulders.''  
  
''I know'', the wizard answered in a low voice. ''Tonight we shall be on our way high up towards the Redhorn Gate. We may well be seen by watchers on that narrow path, and waylaid by some evil.''  
  
''Yet the weather may prove a more deadly enemy than any'', Boromir warned. ''I am worried about the little ones, Mithrandir.''  
  
''So am I'', sighed the wizard, and turned to the Ranger. ''What do you think of our course now, Aragorn?''  
  
Boromir, too, looked expectantly at the future King of Gondor, understanding that he and the wizard must have debatted about this for a very long time. In truth, he even remembered some of the debates he was invited to in Imladris, though back then, not knowing these mountains, it had made little sense to him.  
  
''I think no good of our course from beginning to end, as you know well, Gandalf'', answered Aragonr. ''And perils known and unknown will grow as we go on. But we *must* go on; and it is no good our delaying the passage of the mountains. Further south there are no passes.''  
  
''There comes one to the Gap of Rohan'', Boromir reminded him.  
  
''I do not trust that way since the news about Saruman'', Aragorn replied.''Who knows which side now the marshals of the Horse-lords serve?''  
  
''Who knows, indeed!'', Boromir snorted in dismay. ''They only serve one Man; and that is Théoden son of Thengel, Kind of the Mark. No lord has more faithful Captains than the marshals of the Riddermark.''  
  
Aragorn set on to say something, but then he decided not to, seeing that there was naught that could shake Boromir's faith in his allies. Instead he looked at Gandalf in askance.  
  
''There is another way, and not by the pass of Caradhras'', the wizard said. ''The dark and secret way that we had spoken of.''  
  
''But let us not speak of again!'', Aragorn shuddered. ''Not yet'', he looked at Boromir. ''Say nothing to the others, I beg you, not until it is plain that there is no other way.''  
  
Boromir nodded, not truly understanding, but accepting the wishes of their chosen leader; yet Gandalf shook his head.  
  
''We must decide before we go further'', he said.  
  
''Then let us weigh the matter in our minds, while the others rest and sleep'', answered Aragorn.  
  
* * *  
  
In the late afternoon, while the others were finishing their breakfast, Gandalf and Aragorn went aside together and stood looking at Caradhras. Its sides were now dark and sullen, and its head was in grey cloud.  
  
''I wonder which way the debate would go'', Boromir murmured to Legolas.  
  
The Elf nodded, his glance going back and forth between the forbidding rock and the hobbits, who were huddled together and tried to warm each other.  
  
''I hope they decide to face the weather and the high pass'', he said thoughtfully, ''for perilous it may be, the other way hides a much greater evil.''  
  
''You know what the other, dark and secret way is?'' Boromir asked. ''It seemed to fill Aragorn with dismay, and what ever I might think of him, he is no coward, for sure.''  
  
''No, he is not'', the Elf agreed. ''He is not easy to know, but once you have learnt to read his heart, you learn to love him, too. He walked that other way once, and so did I, and I wish naught more than it be abandoned. For the mere thought of it fills my heart with dread.''  
  
Boromir looked at him in surprise.  
''It has to be a very dark path, indeed, when the valiant Prince of Mirkwood hesitates to walk it'', he said.  
  
''It is'', the Elf answered, ''but let us speak no more of it, ere we are safely on the other side of the mountain.''  
  
Boromir would have pressed the Elf for more details, but Gandalf and Aragorn returned now, and were ready to go. They had chosen the high pass after all.  
  
''From signs that we have seen lately'', Gandalf said, ''I fear that the Redhorn Gate may be watched; and also I have doubts of the weather that is coming up behind. Snow may come.''  
  
''Nay, Mithrandir'', Boromir interrupted, ''I have no doubts about the snow. It *will* come; and it will come soon. Better be prepared for it. We must go with all the speed that we can.''  
And he casted a worried look towards the hobbits.  
  
''Even so it will take us more than two marches before we reach the top of the pass'', the wizard said. ''Dark will come early this evening. We must leave as soon as you can get ready.''  
  
''I will add a word of advice, if I may'', said Boromir.  
  
Gandalf nodded.  
''Speak. You were born under the shadow of the White Mountains, and certainly know something of journeys in the high places.''  
  
''Indeed, I do'', Boromir said. ''First of all, we shall meet bitter cold, if no worse, before we come down on the other side. It will not help us to keep so secret that we are frozen to death. When we leave here, where there are still a few trees and bushes, each of us should carry a faggot of wood, as large as he can bear.''  
  
Gandalf considered this for a moment, clearly not liking the idea of making a fire at all; then he looked at the tired faces of the hobbits - and gave in.  
  
''Very well'', he said, then added warningly; ''but we must not use the wood - not unless it is a choice between fire and death.''  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
So we set out again, with a good speed at first; but soon our way became steep and difficult. The twisting and climbing road had in many places almost disappeared, and was blocked with many fallen stones.  
  
Often they were so big that we had to lift the Halflings and carry them over the rocks, and it needed the utmost care to somehow lead the pony along them, not the least because Samwise seemed to have a fear from heights. If not for his utter devotion towards his Master, I think he would have fled back to Hollin hours ago. The little gardener truly made heroic efforts on behalf of the Ring-bearer.  
  
By midnight we have climbed to the knees of the great mountains. The narrow path now wound under a sheer wall of cliffs to the left, above which the grim flank of Caradhras towered up invisible of the gloom, on the right was a gulf of darkness where the land fell suddenly into a deep ravine.  
  
Laborously, we climbed a sharp slope and halted for a moment at the top. And at that very moment I felt a soft touch on my face, as soft as the kiss of my beloved in my dreams, yet *this* touch was cool and wet and filled me with dread.  
I put out my arm to affirm my fears and saw the dim white flakes settling on my sleeve. The snow finally had come.  
  
''Tarry not! Go on!'', Aragorn cried, stomping forth to lead the way.  
  
So on we went. I gathered the younger Halflings between Legolas and myself, to shield them with my much broader body as well as I might, for before long the snow was falling fast, filling the air and swirling into our eyes. I saw Frodo's shivering form before me and remembered how the Mindolluin defeated the strong Men of Rohan, twice his size and thrice his strength, and I found myself swearing in Rohirric, as I had heard it from Théodred, in a snow storm not unlike this.  
  
There is no other tongue I know that allows one to swear thus fluently and creatively (tough I would like to know what Khuzdul could do if there is a need for it), and I was glad to relieve some of the tension pent up in my heart.  
  
The dark, bent shapes of Mithrandir and Aragorn, only a pace or two ahead of Frodo, could hardly be seen, yet my King must have heard me, for he looked back for a moment, and there was mild shock on his face.  
I shrugged. Oh well, so I was swearing like a horse guard. What then? No else understood, and it made me feel better.  
  
Aragorn turned back to face the path again, and I took a moment to look after my little friends. Following me closely had shielded them a little from the assaults of the wind, yet still they looked miserable, Peregrin even more so than Meriadoc. I bent down to rub his cold, almost frozen cheeks and saw Legolas doing the same to Meriadoc. We exchanged a look and lifted the Halflings from the ground.  
  
''Do you have snow in your lands, Master Peregrin?'', I asked.  
  
''N-not t-this much'', he shivered, burrowing his face in my cloak, ''e-except on the high moors of t-the N-Northfarting. B-Bilbo is t-the only l-living hobbit who could r-remember t-the Fell Winter, when w-white wolves intruded t-the Shire...''  
  
''And I fear we shall not be spared by the wolves here, either'', Legolas added, barely loud enough to be heard above the wailing of the wind. ''They have grown bold in the recent years.''  
  
Mithrandir, too, halted for a moment. Snow was thick on his hood and shoulders; it was already ankle-deep about his boots.''  
  
''That is what I feared'', he said in a low voice. ''What do you say now, Aragorn?''  
  
''That I feared it, too'', andwered Aragorn, ''but less than other things. I knew the risk of snow, though it seldom falls heavily so far south, save high up in the mountains, but we are not high yet; we are still far down, where the paths are normally open all the winter.''  
  
''I wonder if this is a contrivance of the Enemy'', I said, remembering the tales old soldiers often told at campfires. ''They say in my land that he can govern the storms in the Mountains of Shadow1 that stand upon the borders of Mordor. He has strange powers and many allies.''  
  
Gimli, the Dwarf looked at me doubtfully, clearly not ready to believe such a thing.  
''His arm has grown long, indeed, if he can draw snow down from the North to trouble us here, three hundred leagues away.''  
  
But Mithrandir looked troubled, and suddenly very old and tired, too, which seemed odd to me, for despite his age, he never appeared to grow weary before, in all those years I had known him.  
''His arm *has* grown long'', he quietly said.  
  
* * *  
  
While we halted, the wind died down, to our great relief, and the snow slackened until it almost ceased. We all could breathe easier now, and even look around a little.  
  
''You can put me down now, Lord Boromir, sir'', Peregrin muttered. ''I am warm again, thank to you.''  
  
I put him down and Legoals let Meriadoc go, too, and we tramped again, glad that at least we had not to fight the wind. But we had not gone more than a furlong when the storm returned with fresh fury. The wind whistled and the snow become a blinding blizzard.  
  
Soon, even I found it hard to keep going. The Halflings, bent nearly double, toiled along behind us, taller folk, Frodo and Samwise between our leaders and me, the younger ones behind me, guarded by Legolas at the rear. We shielded them as well as we could, yet it was plain that they could not go much further if the snow continued. Even Gimli, as stout as any Dwarf could be, was grumbling as he trudged.  
  
I halted for a moment to take a look at the slowly dragging Peregrin, who clearly had come to an end of his strength, and suddenly the others halted, too, as if we had come to an agreement without any words being spoken.  
  
There were eerie noises in the darkness round us, noises I had heard before on the high paths of Mindolluin. It might have been only a trick of the wind in the cracks and quills of the rocky wall; still they sounded like shrill cries and wild howls of laughter, as if the rock itself had been mocking us ere setting on for a final blow.  
  
Stones began to fall from the mountain-side, whistling over our heads, or crashing on the path beside us. Every now and again we heard a dull rumble, as a great boulder rolled down from hidden heights above. I remembered the brave Men of Rohan falling down the cliffs of Mindolluin, crushed to their deaths in the deep ravines, and turned to Aragorn who was standing near me.  
  
''We cannot go further tonight. Let those call it the wind who will; there are fell voices on the air; and these stones are aimed at us.''  
  
''I do call it the wind'', he said. ''But that does not make what you say untrue.''  
  
For a moment I was too stunned to even try to answer. Had my self-proclaimed King just admitted that I was *right*? That I *could* be right in anything? If wonders like this keep happening, we might survive this journey after all...  
  
''Could it be Curunír, trying to bring down the mountain walls upon us?'', I finally asked.  
  
''Nay'', Mithrandir said, ''his might is not yet great enough for that - unless he lays hand upon the one Ring.''  
  
''There are many evil and unfriendly things in the world that have little love for those that go on two legs, and yet are not in league with Sauron'', Aragorn added, ''but have purposes of their own. Some have been in this world longer than he.''  
  
/If he just would not speak thus swollen all the time!/, I thought, my new-found fondness giving way rapidly the well-known irritation again. /And does he truly need to speak the name of the Enemy, thus close to his Ring we are trying to hide from him and when we are in great enough peril already?/  
  
The Dwarf leaned against the rock wall, grumbling:  
''Caradhras was called the Cruel, and had an ill name, long years ago, when rumour of Sauron had not been heard in these lands.''  
  
''It matters little who is the enemy if we cannot beat off his attack'', said Mithrandir drily, with a pointed look towards Aragorn, who did not answer. His face was haggard and his eyes haunted, and all of a sudden I felt pity for him, despite myself.  
  
He was our leader, and we were about to fail. We could die here, in the snow or under the falling rocks, and he was the one who had led us this path. I could understand his anguish all too well, for I, too, had led good Men to their deaths, many times.  
  
And right now, he was not even leading strong, battle-hardened Men. He was leading innocent little creatures, who needed protection badly despite the braveness of their small hearts.  
  
''But what can we do?'', cried Peregrin miserably.  
He was leaning on Meriadoc and Frodo, and he was shivering uncontrollably.  
  
I picked him up again and tucked him under my cloak, wrapping the warm cloth around him tightly to keep him warm. Not for the first time I wished Elrond had, indeed, sent him back to his small land, tied in a sack, if necessary. I dreaded the thought to see him die in this barren place. He did not belong here. No-one of them did.  
  
''What we can do?'', Mithrandir said. ''Either we stop where we are, or go back. 'Tis no good going on. Only a little higher, if I remember rightly, this path leaves the cliff and runs into a wide shallow through at the bottom of a long hard slope. We should have no shelter there from snow and stones - or anything else.''  
  
''And it is no good going back while the storm holds'', said Aragorn, more than a little irritated now by the wizard's never-ending grumblings. ''We have passed no place on the way up that offered more shelter than this cliff-wall we are under now.''  
  
The Halflings exchanged miserable looks, save Peregrin, who was still shivering under my cloak and buried his face in the folds of my thick jacket. I only wished I would not be wearing my chain mail; I must have been a rather hard pillow for him.  
  
''Shelter'', muttered Samwise darkly, if the word had been a curse, rubbing the fingers of his Master to warm them. ''If this is a shelter, then one wall and no roof make a house.''  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
1 The Ephel Dúath 


	7. Chapter 6: Caught Between a Rock and a H...

OF SNOW AND STONE AND WOLVES  
by Soledad Cartwright  
  
Disclaimer:  
The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun.  
  
Rating: PG - 13, for heavy angst stuff and implied m/m interaction.  
  
  
Author's notes:  
  
So, our heroes are still on the knees of Caradhras and the snow is still falling - a great time to reflect upon one's life, or isn't it? The question is, *what* our favourite Gondorian warrior has to reflect upon - and what good it will do him altogether.  
  
The short song the hobbits are humming at the campfire is, of course, the same one Bilbo quotes to Frodo in Imladris before the Company of the Ring leaves, and is taken from ''The Fellowship of the Ring''.  
  
  
CHAPTER SIX: CAUGHT BETWEEN A ROCK AND A HARD PLACE  
  
Now that it was decided that we would not go on tonight, nor could we turn back, we huddled together as close to the cliff as we could. It faced southwards and near the bottom it leaned out a little, so we hoped it would give us some protection from the northerly wind and from the falling stones.  
  
And, to a certain extent, it did. At least it protected our backs. But eddying blasts swirled round us from every other side, and the snow flowed down in even denser clouds. It was going to be a very long, very dark - and very, very cold night.  
  
Sitting with my back against the rocky wall, I looked southwards, where my city lay somewhere far away, wondering if I was to see her ever again. Wondering what my brother might be doing, and whether my father had given up on me already.  
  
He had sent me out on this errand to ''redeem'' myself, as he said, after he forced the confession from me with a cruelty I never thought he would cast upon me; I was his favoured son after all - the confession of what he had long guessed and feared. Yet what had I achieved that would seem like redemption in his unforgiving eyes?  
  
I *did* find out the meaning of the Riddle of Doom, for sure. Yet it meant to bring home the Man who had the claim to take our city from him. If he was to survive his loss at all, he would turn into a bitter old man, full of grief and hatred against any one who had brought this fate upon him - me, before all else.  
  
And what else have I achieved? I promised the Lady Éowyn to free her from the golden cage of Meduseld and give her a life worth of her braveness and nobility, a life in honour and glory as she deserved it - yet to fulfill this promise was in my powers no more. Thus, either I would have to break a solemn oath and stain my honour and that of our House, or else I would make her the spouse of a mere chamberlain.  
  
That was not how Father intended our marriage to be. She was to become the White Lady of Gondor, queen by all but the title, riding on my side to defend our city against the Enemy and giving me heirs who would follow me in the seat of the Ruling Stewards.  
  
And I made an Elf warrior fall in love with me, the firstborn son of Elrond of all people - though how it happened I still cannot fathom -, and I gave in to his advances and my own weakness, learning a bliss I had never known before. I know I would never return to Imladris, never see him again save in my heart and my dreams, never hear his soft voice save through the Stone in my mind.  
  
I understood by now that I shall need him all my life, short or long it by the measure of Men might be, but how could I hope that any one else would understand it? In the eyes of my own people such a thing was a shame. Yet I could feel no shame about it. No shame at all.  
  
But what should I do if I survived this journey and Éowyn was still ready to wed me, even if I was not to rule Gondor any more? I spoke to her in unclear words about the reason why I could never love her, without revealing the true subject of my love, but that was ere I tasted true passion in my lover's arms; and the need to touch his soul, to feel his unlimited love through the mystic bound his devotion created and the Stone maintained, grew slowly but steadily with every passing day.  
  
I came to understand that I cannot be without this any more.  
  
But would Éowyn understand? She generously accepted that my heart belonged to an other; it was not too hard, for she loved me not, and only agreed to our wedding for the good of our lands and because she wanted to be freed from her fate in the court of Edoras, trapped between the faltering steps of her untimely-aged King and the stalking of a man-snake who had haunted her ever since she ceased to be a child.  
  
Yet should she become my wife, she would have the right to have at least my affections belonging to her, undividedly. Would she be ready to share even *that*, even if the other one was far away and never to come between us bodily? Did I have the right, was I selfish enough to cheat on her in this most dishonourable manner? Should she learn that I had a male lover who was bound to me closer than she ever could hope to become, would she still want to wed me? Could *I* take it upon me to trap her in such a marriage?  
  
Twisted fate it is that a Man can love one, desire an other and be promised to a third one! Were I not in need for heirs, even if our House was to fall from powers, I wished she would turn from me in disgust and chose an other, more worthy spouse.  
  
One she deserves.  
  
One who could not only respect her, but love her and admire her and make her happy.  
  
* * *  
  
The others huddled together with their backs to the rock wall, That tousled pony Samwise called Bill (what a silly name for an animal!) stood patiently but dejectedly in front of the Halflings, and screened them a little; but before long the drifting snow was above his hocks, and it went on mounting, despite Legolas' efforts to sweep the poor beast clean of it every time and again.  
  
Finally he gave up and slumped down at the wall, too, tucking Meriadoc under his cloak again to keep him warm. I grabbed Peregrin and did the same. Without us, the Halflings would soon have been entirely buried - and died, shorty thereafter, for their small bodies could not hoard enough warmth to make through the snow storm.  
  
Peregrin slung his short arms around my neck (they were not long enough to encircle my chest), and I wrapped him up in my cloak more tightly. Soon his breathing became slower and deeper - a sure sign that he had fallen asleep.  
  
As it tickled my neck softly, a great sleepiness came over me, too, and I was thinking of children again, heirs that I might become, and that mayhap, against all hope, it could work with Éowyn after all; and I felt myself sinking slowly into a warm and hazy dream.  
  
  
//Cold water was caressing my face as I lay in that strange, shimmering boat again, floating on the slow waves of Anduin in the grey dark of a young, pale Moon, yet I felt its chill no more as I was listening to the rustling of the sad reeds.  
  
A lonely Man I saw sitting by the waters of the Great River, watching the ever-moving stream, as we ever watch the shores nigh Osgiliath, which our enemies now partly held, and issued from it to harry our lands. But save him all the world seemed to sleep at the midnight hour.  
  
When he saw my boat, he rose and went to the bank, and began to walk out into the stream, as if he had been drawn towards me. I floated within his hand's reach, yet he durst not to touch me, only leaned towards me, and I knew his gear, his haunted eyes, his beloved face - it was my brother, the only keeper of my heart.  
  
The only one I would never - *could* never - touch.  
  
'Boromir!', he cried, his voice full of sorrow. 'Where is thy horn? Whither goest thou? O Boromir!'  
  
Yet I was unable to answer and the water carried my boat away from him, and I could see his face no more.//  
  
  
I jerked awake in cold sweat once again. For though the dream seemed more peaceful to me than at that last time, I thought to read its clear message: I was about to die. Soon. For I did not look different, lying in that boat, nor had Faramir changed aught, save the great weariness in his eyes that saddened my heart beyond measure, and it also seemed clear that I would not reach the shores of my white city on my own - if ever.  
  
A great sadness overcame me, for more than anything had I wanted to see the gleaming tower of Ecthelion one last time, and now I understood that it was not to be. Bereft of the one thing that gave my harsh life any purpose, bereft of the one I loved and, too, the one who loved me, at the end I was to lie in my watery grave utterly alone.  
  
/Never shall you be apart fom me, *meleth-nin*/, the voice of my lover murmured softly in my heart. /In grief and peril and even Death itself, I shall always be with you./  
  
I did not even notice that I was clutching at the Stone again. This had to end. This was no good. I had to hold out on my own, should the others have any use of me.  
  
I reached out through the bond and felt the Stone growing warm under my chilly fingers.  
/Let me go, beloved. You cannot help me. I am marked for Death./  
  
/Even there, I shall be with you, *meleth-nin*/, came his gentle answer; then I felt his soul lightly touch my heart; and then he was gone.  
  
I shook my head and tried to take a look around. The snow was still falling in thick clouds, making sight nearly impossible. Next to me Legolas sat, his eyes wide open yet a little unfocussed, and I knew enough about Elves already to understand that he was sleeping - or doing the closest thing to sleep Elves were able to do.  
  
Elladan, of course, could sleep as I did, and we greatly enjoyed sleeping in each other's arms after long hours of sweet passion, but he had mortal blood, too, in his veins... yet ever so often had I caught him in one of their waking dreams that gives all Elves that eerie look Legolas was wearing right now.  
  
But he did something else, too. At first I tought it was the reflection of snow on his face, but after an even closer glance I saw that I was wrong.  
It was not the snow.  
It was him.  
He glowed softly in the dark. Dimly, barely visible, but he did.  
  
To say that I was shocked by the sight, would be an understatement. Never during the length of our journey had I noticed aught like this. Of course, he spent most nights up in one three or an other, but not all of them, and yet, never had I seen him glowing in his sleep. It make me think of an earlier conversation of ours, when he mentioned the powers only Wood-Elves still possessed among the Fair Folk.  
  
Then I noticed that Meriadoc was still lying in his arms, wrapped up tightly in that soft, grey Elvish cloak of his, just as I tried to keep Peregrin warm, and I understood what he was doing.  
  
He was sharing his body heat with the Halfling, regardless of his own comfort.  
  
He must have felt me watching him, for his eyes focussed again and turned to me. The glowing subsided and was gone, the brightness returning to his eyes only. We both glanced at Frodo, who was shaking with cold on the other side of the Elf, in spite of the warming presence of Samwise.  
  
But again, what warmth the poor little gardener could have left to share with his master?  
  
''Can you take Peregrin for a moment?'', I whispered, only loud enough for Legoas' keen Elven ears to her. ''I need to speak to Mithrandir. This cannot go on like this.''  
  
He nodded, reaching out for *my* little bundle of a Halfling, tucking him safely under the other wing of his cloak. I wondered how long he could keep them warm - how long till we all were chilled to the bone.  
  
I rose slowly, painfully (for my limbs stiffened in the cold and from the hard rock I was sitting upon), intending to speak my mind to the wizard, but stopped over Frodo for a moment, to lift him off the ground where he was crouching in a nest of snow. He stiffened in my arms, eyes widening with fear.  
  
That hit me like the blow of an iron fist.  
  
What have I done to deserve such mistrust? Sure, I spoke my mind openly at the Council, as I always do, but have I ever tried to harm him, to harm any of them? Have I tried to lay my hands on that cursed Ring? After all we went through together, after all I have done to protect him and his little friends, he still considered me untrustworthy?  
  
I wrapped my cloak around him and carried him to the wizard, his most trusted counsellor - his cheerished friend, who still had not the decency to think of warming him or Samwise the same way Legolas and I did warm the younger ones. I was sorely tempted to drop him onto the lap of the old man (or onto the lap of my King, for that matter), but at the end, somehow I found the strength to restrain myself - barely.  
  
''This will be the death of the Halflings, Mithrandir!'', I said, more harshly than intended. ''It is useless to sit here until the snow goes over our heads. We must do somehing to save ourselved.''  
  
The wizard reached out to take Frodo from me and I handled him the Halfling without regret. If he could not trust me, I would not force my help upon him. After all, I had my own Halfling to take care of; one who was more than grateful for my efforts.  
One who was something akin a friend to me... or a son.  
  
''Give them this'', said Mithrandir, searching in his bundle and drawing out a leathern flask. ''Just a mouthful each - for all of us. It is very precious. It is *miruvor*, the cordial of Imladris. Elrond gave it to me at our parting. Pass it round!''  
  
He needed not to tell *me*, of course, what *miruvor* was - I had tasted the warm and fragrant liquor often enough in the pleasant company of my lover, after all. Yet tasting it now, in this cold and barren place with no hope left, made my heart even heavier, lingering on sweet memories of what I shall never have again.  
  
At least the little ones seemed revived by it, founding fresh hope and vigour for a few fleeting moments. But the snow did not relent. It whirled about us thicker than ever, and the wind blew louder. I felt its cruel chill creep till my bones.  
  
''What do you say to a fire?'', I asked. ''The choice seems near now between fire and death, Mithrandir. Doubtless we shall be hidden from all unfriedly eyes when the snow covered us, but that will not help us.''  
  
''You may make a fire if you can'', the wizard answered morosely. ''If there are any watchers that can endure this storm, then they can see us, fire or no.''  
  
He did not give in readily, but at last he gave in, and my hopes returned. If naught else, a fire would save the little ones from chilling down beyond help - for this one night, at least. Beyond that, no-one of us could see.  
  
I woke Gimli and we ordered the wood that was brought by my advice to a small pile. Legolas joined us, still carrying the two Halflings under his cloak, but it passed the skill of Elf or even Dwarf to strike a flame that would hold amid the swirling wind or catch in the wet fuel.  
  
'''Tis no good'', said Legolas quietly; he offered an unearthy sight, with snowflakes glittering as tiny diamonds on his long, dark eyelashes, ''you need to help us, Mithrandir.''  
  
The wizard shook his head.  
''You know I cannot. If I use my art, I would reveal us to any spies that might be looking for us.''  
  
''And if you do not, in the morrow we shall have four well-hidden but very dead hobbits with us'', the Elf shot back bluntly.  
Though he knew probably best of us all the powers and the temper the wizard possessed, he still was not afraid to confront him if he felt the need for it. I could not help but admire him.  
  
Aragorn came to see what we had achieved, carrying Samwise whose lips started to colour blue.  
''Legolas is right, Gandalf'', he said. ''You have to do something, no matter who might watch us. Secrecy will help us little when we freeze to death.''  
  
Outnumbered and assaulted from all sides, albeit still reluctantly, the wizard finally took a hand in the matter. Picking up a faggot he held it aloft for a moment, then with a word of command, *naur an edraith ammen!* he thrust the end of his staff into the mids of it.  
  
At once a great spout of green and blue flame sprang out, and the wood flared and sputtered. The Halflings watched its merry dance with child-like excitement, and I remembered Peregrin's funny little tales about Mithrandir's visits in their land and the fireworks he made to enchant the hearts of the little Halfling-children.  
  
I wish our children in Minas Tirith could enjoy such merriment and peace.  
  
The wizard himself was not all too happy, though.  
''If there are any to see, then at least I am revealed to them'', he grumbled. ''I have written in signs that all can read from Rivendell to the mouths of Anduin.''  
  
But the little ones cared no longer for watchers or unfriendly eyes. Their hearts were rejoiced to see the sight of the fire, and I minded no spies, either, for I felt that at least they would live through this night.  
  
Resilient little fellows as they were, soon their faces lit up from the warmth, and I could barely believe my ears when I heard one of them humming softly:  
  
When winter first begins to bite  
and stones crack in the frosty night,  
when pools are black and trees are bare,  
'tis evil in the Wild to fare...  
  
It was Peregrin, of course, with his irrepressible spirits, but the others joined him shortly, adding more verses to the old song they all knew. They seemed to have frogotten all the perils and hardships that lay behind us, and the even worse ones that lay before us, and simply enjoyed what little warmth our small fire could give them.  
  
For once, I was able to change the old wizard's mind - not on my own, for sure, though it came as a surprise to me that all were sided up with me this time. At least Mithrandir *did* listen to us, and the Halflings were relieved... almost happy.  
  
The wood burned merrily; and though all round it the snow hissed, and pods of slush crept under our feet, we warmed our hands gladly at the fire. Only I could find no peace in its warmth; for it brought back the memory of that foul vision of my father to me, sitting on his own pyre, burning.  
  
What message did that vision carry, unless it was some other evil wizardly from the Ring, trying to strip me from my sanity? Would my father try to slay himself in pride and despair, like the heathen Kings have done, under the domination of the Dark Power, rather than handle his spectre over to a King whose return no-one had foreseen, and, in all honesty, no-one had wanted any more?  
  
Was the last Ruling Steward if Gondor, who had defended the white city all his life in honour and devotion and great safcrifices, to fall into darkness? Could I do that to my own father, bringing back the very Man to Minas Tirith who shall make his long, hard life bereft of all purpose?  
  
Nay; at least this sorrow I would be spared. Should the Heir of Isildur ever set foot in Minas Tirith, I most likely shall not be there on his side. If the dreams tell the truth, this shall be my last journey, and for me there shall be no return. Never shall I hear the ringing of silver trumpets calling me home again.  
  
Death does frighten me not; we knew each other well, from all the battlefields I had walked all my life. I always knew that one day I shall be the one who would not return. 'Tis the order of things when one lives under the shadow of Mordor. And, at least, before the end, I was given a gift few mortals during all Three Ages of Middle-earth had been given.  
  
A great love had been giften upon me, one that is sung of only in the old lays of the Elves: one like the gift of Lúthien to Beren or that of Idril to Tuor. Of the Lady Undómiel and my King I know not, though Aragorn does wear the silver ring of promise upon his finger - yet it seems to me that at times his eyes watch me jealously, as if I had been given something that he is yet to become.  
  
So nay; I am not afraid to lay down my life if our common struggle against the Enemy demands it. This is what I was born for; what I was bred for. This is my fate, my destiny, and I have known it and accepted it on the day I first picked up a sword as a mere lad. And I have prepared myself to do so ever since.  
  
I only regret that I shall not be able to defend my city any more.  
And that I cannot see my brother one last time.  
That I cannot share with him my joy and gratitude upon the great gift I was given.  
  
We always shared everything. Mostly sad things, for our lives were harsh, but a few good ones, too. Even after my guilty secret had been revealed to him.  
He was shocked, yet he did not turn away from me.  
  
We are brothers, and our love survived even the sad truth that I loved him in a way I should have not. It was one-sided and hopeless and utterly wrong, and he told me so in no uncertain terms, yet he never rejected me as his brother.  
  
I wish I could tell him that at last I was loved. That I was alone no longer. That there was someone who cheerished me and cared for me and even had the powers to protect me from the darkening of my own heart.  
  
I wish I could show him the radiant star that shines in my darkness.  
  
Yet I know I shall not have the chance to tell my brother about these things.  
For I was going to die somewhen along this journey.  
Sooner or later, I was going to die.  
  
I only hoped for the Halflings' sake that I would hold on a little longer. They needed me, needed my strength. I watched them fondly as they stood, stooping in a circle round the little dancing and blowing flames. A red light was on their tired and anxious little faces; behind them, the night was like a black wall.  
  
For a short moment, they had peace - even hope.  
But the wood was burning fast, and the snow still fell.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
The fire burned low, and the last faggot was thrown on. The hobbits watched miserably as it was consumed by the flames. Aragorn shot them worried looks and saw that Boromir was frowning, too.  
  
''The night is getting old'', said the Ranger. ''The dawn is not far off.''  
  
''If any dawn can pierce these clouds'', muttered Glimli, sounding every bit as miserable as the hobbits themselves. For all the stubborn resilience of their race, Dwarves were used to the hot furnaces of their deep halls and hated the cold.  
  
Boromir stepped out of the circle and stared up into the darkness. This storm was worse than any thing he had ever lived through on the paths of Mindolluin or any other mountain of his homeland, save that disastrous chase with Théodred, but he knew the mountains well enough to feel the change in the weather.  
  
''The snow is growing less'', he said, ''and the wind is quieter.''  
  
The others followed his gaze weary and looked doubtful, for the flakes were still falling out of the dark, to be revealed white for a moment in the dying fire. For a long time not even Legolas could see any sign of their slackening, and even Pippin began to question his big friend's judgement.  
  
But Boromir was right. Suddenly, as the last pieces of wood had fallen to ash, they became aware that the wind had indeed fallen, and the fakes became larger and fewer. At last the snow stopped altogether.  
  
Every one of them, even Aragorn, looked at Boromir with new-found respect. The warrior of Gondor only shrugged.  
''It comes such often in the mountains'', he offered dismissively. ''Those who are used to them, can feel the changes ere they come. What now?''  
  
''We have to wait till dawnbreak'', sighed Aragorn. ''With the only path buried in deep snow, we cannot risk to move in the dark.''  
  
The others nodded in agreement and settled down to wait. Boromir turned his great, round shield upside down, laid a folded blanket into it and settled Merry and Pippin atop, so that they would not need to stand in the snow with their bare feet. Aragorn put Frodo and Sam on the back of Bill the pony, who seemed undisturbed about the whole storm they had to live through. The others, at least, had thick, warm footwear (save Legolas who wore the same light, soft boots as always), so they needed not to worry about getting wet feet.  
  
As the light grew stronger, it showed a silent, shrouded world. Below their refuge were white humps and domes and shapeless deeps, below which the path that they had trodden was altogether lost. But the heights above were hidden in great clouds still heavy with the threat of snow.  
  
''D-do you t-think w-we c-can climb t-the Pass after all?'', Pippin asked, teeth chattering with cold again.  
  
Boromir started to rub his back absent-mindedly, his eyes going back and forth between Aragorn and Gandalf. Yet it was not the Ranger, nor the wizard who gave the hobbit the only possible answer - the only answer he would whole-heartedly agree with himself.  
  
It was Gimli.  
  
The Dwarf looked up to the clouded peak above their heads and shook his head in sorrow.  
''Caradhras has not forgiven us'', he said in his deep, rumbling voice. ''He has more snow yet to fling at us, if we go on. The sooner we go back and down the better.''  
  
Pippin shuddered and looked up to the grim face of Boromir who still was working on warming him up.  
''So all this struggle, the climbing, that we nearly froze to death... all this was in vain?'', he asked in a small, quiet voice.  
  
''I am afraid so, little one'', the son of Denethor answered sadly. ''I fear Gimli is right. We cannot do aught but go back.''  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Alright, we shall have one more chapter in the snow - including that darn movie scene with the Ring falling off -, and probably another one with the wolves (after all, they are in the title, so I cannot leave them out, now can I), and after that they will have to face the darkness of Moria. But that will be another story entirely.  
  
And di: this is a canon fic (well, mostly), so I'm afraid, yes, Boromir *will* have to die. We all know he's not going to make it beyond Sarn Gebir. Besides, I stated clearly at the beginning of this series that it will end with his death. (See: A/N to ''Forgotten Song''.) 


	8. Chapter 7: Such a Small Thing...

OF SNOW AND STONE AND WOLVES  
by Soledad Cartwright  
  
Disclaimer:  
The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun.  
  
Rating: PG - 13, for heavy angst stuff and implied m/m interaction.  
  
  
Author's notes:  
  
Now we've come to the infamous Ring scene. I know it's not in the books, but it was such an intense scene (due to the excellent performance of Sean Bean, who made me really fond of Boromir in the first place), not to mention how important it is for character development, so I felt I have to work it into this story, book canon or not.  
  
I did it with great hesitation, mostly because this particular scene had already been written several times, by several writers, some of them truly amazingly done. I read all that I could find, in order to avoid repeating anything that has already been said. So, if you find the one or other line vaguely familiar, that had happened against my intention and means that I have failed. (Hope I haven't, though.)  
  
Also, I want to set straight a misunderstanding that popped up lately: Boromir *can* remove the collar with the Stone, if he wants. As we shall see later, he can make the magically enchanted clasp reappear and open at will. So, it really is a useful tool, not some sort of mental handcuff, binding him to Elladan against his will.  
  
This chapter is dedicated to the wonderfully talented Sean Bean. Not that he would care if he knew, of course, but this one is for him, anyway.  
  
  
CHAPTER SEVEN: SUCH A SMALL THING  
  
Now that they all agreed that they would not live through another night upon the knee of Caradhras, there still was the difficult matter of retreat to manage.  
  
''This shall not be easy'', Aragorn muttered. ''Truth is, it might well prove impossible.''  
  
They followed his gaze and found it hard to disagree. For only a few paces from the ashes of their fire the snow lay many feet deep; higher than the heads of the hobbits, as Pippin noticed to his great dismay. In places it had been scooped and piled by the wind into great drifts against the cliff.  
  
''We cannot go through all that snow'', he muttered to Merry with sinking heart. ''Never.''  
  
Legolas, who stood nearby, smiled at them. The storm had troubled him little, or so it seemed, and he alone of the Company remained still high of heart. Boromir admired his resilience and wondered secretly, what foul weathers in Northern Mirkwood must be common, if he lived through such a snow storm with so little trouble.  
  
''If Mithrandir would go before us with a bright flame, he might melt a path for you'', said the Elf lightly to the worried hobbits.  
  
It was a mild jest, intended clearly to lift the spirits of the little folk. Alas, the wizard was not by his best humour in that morning.  
  
''If Elves could fly over mountains, they might fetch te Sun to save us'', he answered in a sharp tone. ''But *I* must have something to work on. I cannot burn snow.''  
  
/And yet you were *so* reluctant to listen to me when I advised to take as much firewood with us as we could!/, thought Boromir, eyeing warily the two of them, uncertain of Legolas' reaction. The Elf had shown quite a temper in recent days; a temper that did not match with his preconceptions about aloof and detached Elves.  
  
Not that Elladan would have been anything of that, but in his case Boromir had mortal ancestors to count in for non-customary behaviour. Legolas, on the other hand, remained an enigma in his eyes: merry and even-tempered most over the time, yet quick to anger and clearly dangerous on rare occasions.  
  
Not now, though. The Elf merely smiled over Gandalf's fuming and simply peeled off his soft, greyish-green cloak to drap it around the shivering young hobbits who were huddled together upon Boromir's shield.  
  
''Well, said Boromir, ''when heads are at loss, bodies must serve, as we say in my country. The strongest of us must seek a way.''  
He cast a glance at Aragorn and pointed forward with his chin.  
''See! Though all is now snow-clad, our path, as we came up, turned about that shoulder of rock yonder. It was there that the snow first began to bother us. If we could reach that point, amybe it would prove easier beyond. It is no more than a furlong off, I guess.''  
  
Aragorn followed his gaze and nodded with new-found respect. Despite his own keen eyes and great experience, he would have been hard-pressed to find that particular spot, for in all his long life he always avoided to travel in high places at the times of winter. Boromir, on the other hand, clearly knew his mountains.  
''Then let us force a path thither, you and I'', he said.  
  
Boromir nodded and went forth, leading the way. Pippin glared after his hero in silent admiration. Aragorn might have been the tallest in their Company, but Boromir, little less in height, was broader and heavier in built, and Pippin suspected that he was stronger, too, at least when it came to the raw strength of the body.  
  
Slowly, the two Men moved off, and were soon toiling heavily. In places the snow was breast-high, even for them and often Boromir seemed to be swimming or burrowing with his great limbs, rather than walking. He remainded Pippin of the ancient tales of ice giants from the North that his nanny used to tell him (and the other little Tooks) in long winter evenings in the Great Smials.  
  
Legolas watched the struggling Men for awhile with a fond smile upon his lips, for it delighted him that these two at least were working together now, instead of their constant bickering (in which, in his secret opinion, Estel was not truly innocent, either), and then he turned to the others.  
  
''The strongest must seek a way, say you? But I say: let a ploughman plough, but choose an otter for swimming, and for running light over grass and leaf, or over snow - an Elf!''  
  
With that, he sprang forth nimbly, leaving a highly irritated wizard behind, and Pippin noticed for the first time that the Elf's soft boots were little more than light shoes, and his feet made little imprint in the snow.  
  
''Farewell!'', he said mockingly to Gandalf. ''I go to find the Sun!''  
Then swift as a runner over firm sand he shot away, and quickly overtaking the toiling Men, with a wave of his hand he passed them, and sped into the distance and vanished round the rocky turn.  
  
The look Gandalf threw after him could have melted all the snow that lay in the way of their retreat.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
There are times when being broad and big-boned and heavily muscled could be an advantage against being slender and graceful. Rough strength can open ways when all wisdom of the Wise fails. And being strong-headed sometimes can beat reason.  
  
It also can be of use when one fears the cold kiss of Death no more. Accepting the fate that had been ordered for us can give a heart unlooked-for freedom. There is great relief in finding one's place in the densely-waved tapestry of things that are to be.  
  
I had the strength to fight the snow; and I had the mark of Death upon my heart as well. Thus I got to take the lead even before my King this time. What bitter satisfaction it was... being the one who is dispensable enough, I finally got to lead.  
  
It matters little, though. I did it not for him or Mithrandir, or even for the fair Prince of Mirkwood who had just overtaken us, running upon the snow lightly and quickly as a big, graceful cat, leaving us, struggling mortals behind with a wave of his long hand.  
  
He had no use of me.  
Nor had that old, grumpy wizard; he always preferred my better-mannered brother, who was his eager pupil every time he chose to toss him a bone.  
  
Nor had my King, for that matter.  
  
Even if I lived to return to Minas Tirith, I would be but a nuisance for him... trapped between my duties as his lead servant and the pain of my own father, whom I still loved, despite everything that had happened between us upon my departure.  
  
Father might have been cruel, but at the end, he was right. My feelings for my brother were twisted, my desire was wrong, and it was best for all sides involved when I left. I wonder, though: Would he had sent me on this errand if he had known that he would send me to my death?  
  
Maybe he would.  
Duty always came first for Father, and he taught me to think and handle things in the same way.  
  
So when my King called me to force a way through the shoulder-high wall of snow, down to that rocky shoulder below, I obeyed at once, for it was my duty to protect the weak from any harm.  
  
I was brought up to become the next Ruling Steward of Gondor, and duty was the first thing that had been beaten into my head - into my *heart* - by the heavy hand of my father.  
  
The duty to lead.  
And to protect.  
  
To protect the lands and the people of Gondor, the withe city of the King - and the King himself, should he ever return; which, of course, no-one had truly expected during the last centuries.  
  
Now, of all people, I was the one chosen to fulfill that particular duty again.  
  
This should make me proud and happy, perhaps, yet it does not.  
I still cannot trust him with the fate of my people.  
Or am I just jealous that he had come at all, to take from me what was to be mine?  
  
Mayhap 'tis better that I shall die ere we would reach the white city. He would go along with Faramir much better. They are very alike in certain ways, and our peuple would accept him better when the Heir of Gondor is no more.  
  
I was beloved by our people, was long-accepted as their next ruler. They love Faramir, too, mayhap even more dearly, but he was never Father's Heir - he would be no hindrance for the new King.  
  
He would never become the reason for an other Kintwist in Minas Tirith.  
I, on the other hand, might.  
  
I do not step down from my place easily. Too long had I dreamed of becoming the Lord and protector of the white city.  
I was born and bred for that.   
But I am going to die, and at least shall not cause any twist among our people.  
I only hope he understands his duty as well.  
  
My vision is getting blurred in all that cold whiteness. The snow stands as high as my chin now, and it takes great efforts to go any further. But that point we are moving towards cannot be very far. We should be there any moment now, or we shall die and be buried in snow right there...  
  
A surprisingly strong hand grabbed my icy figners, and as I opened my heavy lids with great effort, I looked straight into the worried face of Legolas.  
  
''Hold on, son of Gondor'', he said, ''for your efforts are near to bringing fruit. This drifft is little wider than a wall, and you have all but broken through it. On the other side the snow suddenly grows less.''  
  
I scowled up at him, squatting above my head like a grashopper in his green tunic, relieved yet a little annoyed at the same time.  
''Could you not have carried at least one of the Halflings with you?''  
  
''Alas, not'', he said with honest sorrow written clearly all over his fair face. ''I only can balance my own weight upon the fragile ground of snow... with even a hobbit on my back, I would have sunk til my ears. I regret that I cannot be more of a help for you, my friend, but even Elven skills do have their limits.''  
  
I felt ashamed for scowling at him while he only tried to help, but when I began to apologize, he only smiled that slight, eerie smile of his.  
''Save your strength'', he said, ''for you still have to go four or five more feet ere you can break through that wall of snow. I shall run back to the others with the good tidings.''  
  
He rose gracefully again and shot away with the lightning speed and easiness of a squirrel. I looked back to my King. He followed a few feet behind, trying to widen the narrow channel I had already burrowed into the snow. His face was deeply lined and grey with weariness, and for the first time ever since I had learnt who he truly was, did I fully realized that he was, indeed, less than a year younger than my own father.  
  
The blood of Westernesse run deep in him, giving him the long life and the great strength of Elros' line, yet he was not invincible. He might have been the last true Heir of Númenor, but still, he was a mere mortal, just as I was. Fate might give him many more years, yet at the end he shall follow me to non-life, just as he followed me through the snow.  
  
And suddenly I felt pity for him. Harsh and short as my life had been, at least I always knew where I belonged. I had my family, my land, my people - and my destiny, laid out openly before my eyes, and though war and blood and great pain my paths had led me through, they were frimly set. Hopeless as our fight might have been, the Enemy we fought, the allies we had, were known and confirmed. I had my place and I filled it as well as I could.  
  
But what might it have been like for him? Fostered by Elves, taught to live as one of them, yet never really to belong? It was killing Elladan slowly, being so profoundly different than his own Kin, but at least he was an Elf! What might it have been like for a mere mortal? How was he able to adapt at all?  
  
Was this the reason he left Elrond's house and joined the Rangers of the North? And how might have *they* accepted the pupil of Elves, leaving the comfort of Imladris, to share the harshness of their lives, their hard struggles? He spoke of having lived in Rohan, and even Minas Tirith, for awhile - did he thus of his own will or was he forced to seek out a place where he would blend in better?  
  
And learning that the Lady Undómiel had given up the grace of her life to share his mortality - what could it be like burdened with a love this great? How can a mere mortal accept such a sacrifice? How could *any one* live up to that?  
  
He noticed my glare and looked back at me in askance. I shrugged. Even if I were ready to speak of these things - even if *he* would ever be ready to do so -, this certainly was not the proper time.  
  
''Legolas says we are almost through'', I only stated. ''He meant we only have to go four or five more feet.''  
  
He nodded, eyes glassed over with weariness.  
''Can you still go on?'', he asked, hoarsely.  
  
''For a little while, aye, I can'', I answered, for though I was tired, too, he clearly could not have taken over the lead from me. ''Let us hope our fair Elf was right.''  
  
And on we went, fighting the snow, the icy cold and our own weariness, for all our hopes lay now in the waning strength of our bruised bodies.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
The others waited, huddled together, watching until Boromir and Aragorn dwindled into black specks in the whiteness. At length, they passed from sight completely. The time dragged on, and Pippin became restless.  
  
''Merry'', he murmured, still shivering, even in the warm nest of Legolas' Elven cloak, ''d-do you think t-they can b-burrow a way for us?''  
  
Merry, who endured the cold a little better, gave him an encouraging smile.  
''Do you not trust your hero any longer?'', he asked.  
  
Pippin glanced at him miserably.  
''I d-do... b-but it is snowing again...''  
  
Merry peeked out of their protecting nest and realized with sinking heart that Pippin was right. The clouds lowered, and now a few flakes of snow started to course curling down again.  
''Well'', he said with false bravery, ''It is just a few flakes, really. They should be back in no time at all.''  
  
An hour, maybe, went by, though it seemed far longer, and then at least they saw Legolas coming back. At the same time Boromir and Aragorn reappeared round the bend far behind him, and came labouring up the slope. Pippin felt his tired little heart jump with relief. They made it!  
  
''Well'', cried Legolas, laughing merrily as he ran up, ''I have not brought the Sun. She is walking in the blue fields of the South, and a little wreath of snow on this Redhorn hillock troubles her not at all.''  
  
'''Tis easy for you to say, Master Elf'', grumbled Sam, still making valiant - and completely hopeless - efforts to somehow keep his master warm. ''But that 'little wreath of snow', as you call it, troubles *us* wery much, if you understand my meaning, sir.''  
  
''I do'', smiled Legolas, ''But I also have brought back a gleam of good hope for those who are doomed to go on feet. There is the greatest wind-drift just below the turn, and there our Strong Men were almost buried'', his eyes twinkled with mischief by these words; then he turned more serious and added: ''They despaired, until I returned and told them that the drift was little wider than a wall... albeit a thick one, indeed. But further down, the snow is no more than a white coverlet to cool a hobbit's toes.''  
  
''Ah, it is as I said'', growled Gimli. ''It was no ordinary storm. It is the ill will of Caradhras. He does not love Elves and Dwarves, and that drift was laid to cut off our escape.''  
  
''But happily your Caradhras has forgotten that you have Men with you'', said Boromir, who came up at that moment. ''And doughty Men, too, if I may say it; though lesser Men with spades might have served you better'', he added, with a tired grin on his sweat-covered face. ''Still, we have thrust a lane through the drift, and for that all may be grateful who cannot run as light as Elves.''  
  
''B-but how are w-we t-to get d-down t-there, even if you have c-cut t-through the drift?'', said Pippin, voicing the thought of all hobbits.  
  
Boromir looked down at him with a fond smile.  
''Have hope!'', he said. ''I am weary, but I still have some strength left, and Aragorn too. We will bear the little folk. The others no doubt will make shift to tread the path behind us. Come Master Peregrin! I will begin with you.''  
  
He lifted up the hobbit, leaving to Legolas to collect his shield, blankets and his own cloak, which the Elf did readily, running forth to prepare a sitting place for the hobbits.  
''Cling to my back'', Boromir said to Pippin, and strode forward. ''I shall need my arms.''  
  
Aragorn with Merry came behind, accepting the lead of Boromir once more without a word of protest. Pippin marveled at the strength of his big friend, seeing the passage that he had already forced with no other tool than his great limbs.  
  
Even now, burdened as he was, Boromir still was widening the hack for those who followed, thrusting the snow aside as he went - like a giant from those fairy tales the old nursemaid of the Took-children was so fond of telling.  
  
They came at length to the great drift. It was flung across the mountain-path like a sheer and sudden wall, and its crest, sharp as if shaped with knives, reared up more than twice the height of Boromir; but through the middle a passage had been beaten, rising and falling like a bridge.  
  
Carefully, Boromir ducked and eased through the passage, and on the far side they saw that Legolas had already prepared the resting place for the hobbits, making them a nest in Boromir's turned-up shield again. Pippin, considering, that the Man of Gondor carried this shield as an ordinary piece of his weaponry, while it was big enough for him and Merry both to sit in it, suddenly felt very, very small and unimportant.  
  
''I shall go back to help with the baggage'', the Elf said to Boromir, when Merry and Pippin were set down and wrapped up safely once again. ''No ill things would harm the little folk here, I hope. But the others must come back, as soon as they can.''  
  
Boromir nodded, and together with Aragorn, they made their way back to the others. He felt bone-weary and only wanted to get over with the mountain, with the snow and the falling stones - with the dreams that were drawing him mad. To be down from this cursed rock and head towards the Gap of Rohan - towards home, even if he was never to reach the fair shores of his beloved city again.  
  
He reached down to pick up the hobbit who happened to be nearest, but once again, Frodo shrieked back from his touch instinctively, not even knowing he did.  
  
Then his feet slipped on the snow and he fell.  
  
And the clasp of that silver chain he was carrying the Ring on opened, as if it had a will of its own, and the Ring flew through the chilly air, glittering like a dragonfly, landing directly before Boromir's feet.  
  
There it lay, shining darkly upon the white pillow of snow, like a wheel of fire. Like a sigil of unevitable doom. All of a sudden, it became eerily silent at the mountain-side.  
  
Everyone watched with their breath held, as the Heir of Gondor bent down to pick it up by its chain and took a close, intent look at it.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * *  
  
Suddenly, the Ring seemed to grow in weight and his gleam became more intense. Like the mirror image of that great, evil Eye, framed by fire, that had hunted me in my dreams ever since my first touch with the Shadow.  
  
The whispering in my heart grew louder, shutting out everything else, even the gentle mental urge of my lover to turn away.  
  
In that short yet endless moment of frozen time, there was naught else just the Ring and myself.  
  
And it whispered to me of things I hid and cheerished in my heart all my life.  
It spoke of the lost greatness of Gondor and of ways how it could be returned. Of our noble history, of our might - the proud heritage of the Men of Númenor, guarded only in the white city of Ecthelion any longer in these lesser times.  
  
It whispered of blood and glory and of what might be again.  
How we might overthrow the Enemy, clean the lands of his evil and make all people live peacefully and safely under our benevolent rule, when Arnor and Gondor shall be united and beautiful and strong again.  
  
All it would take is to put the Ring upon my finger. To take my birthright, that was about to be ursurped by a stranger, back again.  
For I was born and raised to rule, and I have the strength to carry this burden, for the good of all whose fate had been entrusted to me.  
  
The Heir of Isildur, carrying the re-forged Sword of his forefathers that Was Broken, might fear to raise with the power of the One Ring, but what can a mere Ranger know of kingship and ruling? Not blood alone is what makes a King but strength and bravery and wisdom.  
  
I am the son of the Lord Denethor, a man with the most unbreakable willpower in Middle-earth; and his Heir. I have the strength to bend this Ring to my will. I fear not to use it to regain our lost glory. And I am wise enough to know that it is the only thing that could beat its dark Maker.  
  
''Boromir!'', the distant voice of my King calls out to me.  
  
His eyes are narrowed in the sunlight, his face is haggard, as he watches the twist of the Ring on its chain, glittering with dark, unholy beauty. Is that fear on his face what I see? Does he fear that I would, indeed, put the Ring upon my finger, doing the only thing that could save us all; doing what he is much too weak to do?  
  
What is he afraid of? Of the Ring itself - or of me?  
  
I am surprised to hear my own voice in that deafening silence.  
'''Tis a strange fate that we should suffer so much fear and doubt over so small a thing... such a little thing'', I murmur quietly.  
  
''Boromir! Give the Ring to Frodo!''  
There is a tightness in the voice of my King. He is afraid of me, I cannot have any doubt of *that* now. He is afraid of what I might become, should I put the Ring upon my finger.  
  
He never feared me before. No-one of them did. They feared the Wise, should one of them wield it; Legolas even feared himself. But no-one of them had thought of the Heir of Gondor - the big oaf as they saw me - rising to the power that was his birthright and could be truly his own, due to this powerful tool.  
  
Then I saw the hand of my King reach for the hilt of his sword, and I knew he would rather slay me than let me do what my heart told me was right - for it was something else than what *he* felt was right.  
  
I swallowed hard, fighting back the tears of bitter disappointment. As I turned away from him, I could see all the others, watching me, and it made me very bitter, indeed, for it was clear from their faces that they thought I would betray them.  
  
That I would be without honour.  
A Man who breaks his word.  
A thief.  
Or a fool.  
  
They understood nothing. They saw not that I could save us all.  
And though I had the strength to do so, they wished me not to save us.  
The fools.  
  
I shook my head in despair and reached the chain with the Ring on it to Frodo.  
''As you wish'', I said, my voice choked with bitter laughter. ''I care not.''  
And at that moment, I truly did not.  
  
Frodo grabbed the chain from my hand as if he had feared I would change my mind and snatch it back. I blame him not. He knows the Men of Gondor not. He cannot know that we always keep our word - even if it brings our own downfall to us.  
And I swore an oath to protect him - and the Ring.  
  
But my King - *he* should have known better.  
  
As I bent down once more to pick up the utterly frightened Sam, I noticed Legolas, frozen on the spot, glaring in wide-eyed shock.  
  
But, stangely, he was not glaring at me.  
He was glaring at Aragorn.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
Merry and Pippin were waiting with increasing worries, not understanding where all the others tarried. Finally, they saw Legolas, running lightly upon the snow, but his face was unusually pale and hard, and he refused to answer their questions, only urged them to get ready, for they must flee the mountain as soon as the Company had gathered again.  
  
After a while Boromir returned, too, carrying Sam, who did not seem to be overly happy about this arrangement. The Man's face, too, was pale and haggard and hard as the rock above their heads. He dropped Sam unceremoniously, as soon as he got to the far side of the cliff, and started collecting his things without a word - or even as much as a look - for his ''little ones''.  
  
Behind him, in the narrow but now well-trodden track came Gandalf, leading Bill with Gimli perched among the baggage, which did not seem to make the Dwardf overly happy, either, if his grumblings were any hint about his state of mind. But at least they broke the eerie silence, making Pippin able to breathe again.  
  
Last came Aragorn, carrying Frodo, who was desperately clinging to his back, as if he had just escaped some great peril. The Ranger's face, just like that of the wizard's, was deeply lined and grey with worry and weariness.  
  
''What might have happened?'', Pippin whispered to Merry, who looked from one to another in askance, then shrugged.  
''I very much doubt that they are willing to tell us'', he said. ''Not even Frodo or Sam, I fear. And considering the mood he is in right now, I would rather not risk to ask Boromir about it.''  
  
Pippin looked at the worn face of his great friend and nodded in agreement. Boromir looked like an overly tired soldier, coming right from a particularly vicious battle. But there was something else in those now ice-cold, hard grey eyes.  
  
Something he had only seen in the eyes of wandering Dwarves, fleeing from far countries, seeking refuge in the West.  
  
It was the look of utter hopelessness.  
  
Pippin could not even try to guess what could a Man so strong, noble and brave as he had come to know Boromir, make to lose all hope, but it almost broke his little heart.  
''Could he have some fight with Strider again?'', he whispered to Merry, for by now they had learnt that there was some... tension between the two Men, although they knew not what it might have been.  
  
Merry shrugged, and they watched as Aragorn - whom they admired just as greatly - passed through the lane and lowered Frodo to the ground. But hardly had the Ring-bearer touched the frozen soil when with a deep rumble a fall of stones and slithering snow rolled down the mountain-side.  
  
The spray of it half-blinded them all, with Boromir instinctively grabbing the younger hobbits and protecting them with his own body, while Aragorn did the same with Frodo, cloutching against the cliff, and Legolas covered Sam. When the air cleared again, they saw that the path was blocked behind them.  
  
''Enough, enough!'', cried Gimly in dismay. ''We are departing as quickly as we may.''  
  
And indeed, with that last stroke the malice of the mountain seemed to be expended, as if Caradhras was satisfied that the invaders had been beaten off and would not dare to return. The threat of snow lifted. The clouds began to break and the light grew broader.  
  
Without a word, Boromir grabbed Pippin and lifted him from the ground again. But this time he did not sling the young hobbit upon his back, where, once again, his big shield was hanging now, but merely held him in his arms. Pippin shifted a little embarrassed, for he knew how weary Boromir was, and wanted him to save his strength. Besides, the path was now much easier.  
  
''I can go on my own feet from here on, you know'', he said in a quiet little voice. The Man nodded and his eyes seemed to soften a little.  
  
''I know, little one. But we can go faster when I carry you. And we *have* to get away from here, the sooner the better'', he paused, then added in a voice too low to be heard by any one else, except probably the keen Elven ears of Legolas. ''Let me do this for you, Master Peregrin!''  
  
Pippin still hesitated, not wanting to become a burden, but when he saw Legolas picking up Merry in the same manner, he finally gave in. Truth to be told, he was grateful for being carried. His legs ached and he was still cold, terribly so, in spite of the warm nest Legolas had built them while they were waiting.  
  
The snow became steadily more shallow as they went down, so that even the hobbits could have trudged along. Yet Boromir stubbornly refused to put Pippin down, and Legolas, too, kept carrying Merry, pointedly turning his back to Aragorn all the time, which surprised the young hobbits to no end, for they knew of the Elf Prince and the Ranger being old friends.  
  
What could have happened, wondered Pippin, that so obviously broke their Company apart? They were away barely long enough to even start a fight. He looked up into the cold, closed face of his big friend, but Boromir was avoiding his gaze.  
  
''Let it be, little one'', he murmured in a voice so sad, that Pippin nearly began to cry. '''Tis better you know not.''  
  
''Better for who?'', Pippin sniffed, clearly hating to be left out of anything important. ''For you? Or for Strider?''  
  
At that, Boromir finally met his eyes with that barren look of his, and said in a soft, low voice:  
''For you, my brave little friend. 'Tis better for you.''  
  
Pippin dared not to ask any more, and soon Boromir put him down on the flat shelf at the head of the steep slope where they had felt the first flakes of snow the night before.  
  
''There we are again'', the son of Denethor muttered. ''Two days lost, at least... precious days during which we could have made leagues upon leagues towards the Gap of Rohan. What a waste... we have lost time and strength and valuable resources - and for what? But they would not listen to me, they never do...''  
  
No-one but Pippin heard him, though. They all looked back from the high place over the lower lands, The morning was now far adwanced and allowed a much better sight. Far away in the tumble of country that lay at the foot of the mountain was the dell from which they had started to climb the pass.  
  
''That would be a long and painful march downhill'', Merry murmured. ''How are your legs doing, Pippin?''  
  
''They ache'', Pippin sighed, ''even though Boromir had carried me through the worst places. And I am chilled to the bone. *And* I am hungry and dizzy. We would have died up there without the others, Merry.''  
  
''I know'', Merry rubbed his eyes tiredly. ''I fear I cannot take much more, Pippin. I see black specks swimming before my eyes already.''  
  
''Funny'', replied Pippin is slight surprise, ''I can see them, too. Maybe they are not in your eyes only.''  
The others followed their gaze. In the distance below them, but still high above the lower foothills, dark dots were circling in the air. They looked very familiar.  
  
''The birds again!'', said Aragorn, pointing down.  
  
''That cannot be helped now'', said Gandalf. ''Whether they are good or evil, or have nothing to do with us at all, we must go down at once.''  
  
''True'', Boromir nodded, his eyes following the birds, instead of looking at the wizard. ''Not even on the knees of Caradhras should we wait for another night-fall. The mountain has defeated us, just as I had feared.''  
  
''I hope this gives you some satisfiction'', said Aragorn grimly.  
  
Boromir turned to him, that strange emptiness still present in his now stone-grey eyes; in fact, it seemed to have grown in the recent moments.  
''Nay, Aragorn'', he replied. ''It would give me satisfaction if we were safely on our way towards the Gap of Rohan.''  
  
''That would help us little with our quest to find a way to Mordor'', Aragorn said.  
  
''Mayhap not'', answered Boromir slowly, ''but it would help us very much to reach Minas Tirith in time - ere the city of Ecthelion gets under siege by the forces of Mordor.''  
  
''We cannot abandon the quest, son of Denethor'', the Ragner's voice sharpened a little. ''Do you not understand the utmost importance of...''  
  
''Nay'', Boromir interrupted, '''tis *you* who understand not. I care not for the quest. I care for Gondor. And so should you, if you wish to become our King by more than just an empty title. For it takes more, being a King, than simply wearing the crown.''  
  
Ere Aragorn could have answered those accusing words, Gandalf pondered with his staff on the frozen soil loudly. He looked furious.  
''End this! Both of you! We have no time for your bickering. Aragorn! Lead on, and let us go down *now*!''  
  
The two Men exchanged cold glares, then turned their backs on the Redhorn Gate, for none of them was foolish enough to risk the wizard's wrath. So Aragorn went forth, and the others stumbled wearily behind, down the slope.  
  
The feeling of defeal lay heavily on their hearts.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * *  
  
End note:  
Eight chapters down, probably two more to go, until this particular story comes to its end. Stay with me a little longer, and you shall see the wolves after all!  
  
I hope the Ring scene was not too bad, nor a simple repetition of anything that has been done before - this is the best I could make of it!  
  
Also, I'm sorry that this chapter turned out so long, but there was no point where I could have break it without messing up the whole sense of it.  
  
Your insights, as always, are much appreciated.  
  
Soledad 


	9. Chapter 8: Bitter Truths

OF SNOW AND STONE AND WOLVES  
by Soledad Cartwright  
  
Disclaimer:  
The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun.  
  
Rating: PG - 13, for heavy angst stuff and implied m/m interaction.  
  
  
Author's notes:  
  
Those wo didn't understand why Legolas was angry with Aragorn may get their answer. Not that our favourite Elf would be in the best of his moods, either. After most of them had successfully ruined they slowly-growing friendship again, there would be some hard truths to be told.  
  
To my very different view about Gimli there will be a detailled explanation at the beginning of the next story, where our heroes will have to go through Moria. Sorry, folks, you just will have to wait.   
  
I assumed that Legolas, too, had already been in Moria once - around the year 2060 of the Third Age, when Sauron's power in Dol Guldur began to grow again. This is a made-up fact I'll need in further stories, so do forgive me!  
  
For the perspective there are some important events of those years:  
  
- The Dwarves fled from Moria in 1981, after their King, Náin I. had been slain; at the same time, many of the Silvan Elves of Lórien fled south; Amroth and Nimrodel were lost;  
  
- The Dwarf-kingdom ''under the Mountain'' (= Erebor) was founded in 1999;  
  
- the Nazgúl besieged Minas ithil in 2000; the city fell in 2002;  
  
- The last King of Gondor, Eärnur, died in 2050; Mardil Voronwë became the first Ruling Steward, and this is the begin of Boromir's House;  
  
- Gandalf went to Dol Guldur in 2063. Sauron retreatred and híd in the East. This was the begin of the Watchful Peace during which the Nazgúl reamined quiet in the occupied Minas Morgul (the former Minas Ithil).  
  
(Data taken from ''The Tale of Years'', and appendix to ''The Return of the King'')  
  
*words between asterixes*, as always, represent emphasis  
  
  
CHAPTER EIGHT: BITTER TRUTHS  
  
They walked in silence all day. Not even the hobbits felt like talking, which was highly unusual, yet not completely surprising, since the Men were in a rather foul mood, Gimli morose and Legolas icily detached. Merry and Pippin felt that something was very wrong, but though they kept themselves between their Gondorian friend and the Elf, none of them dared to ask any question.  
  
It was evening, and the grey light was again waning fast, when they halted for the night. They were very weary; the hobbits practically dropped to the ground as soon as they stopped moving forward, not caring for any makeshift bed that might be arranged - or even for food, which clearly showed how near they to the end of their strength had already came.  
  
The mountains were veiled in deepening dusk, and the wind was cold again. Boromir and Legolas wrapped up the hobbits in blankets (while Boromir pointedly made a wide detour around Frodo, letting him to the care of the Elf, which surprised Pippin greatly, despite his exhaustion-fogged mind), and Gandalf spared them each one more mouthful of the *miruvor* of Imladris.  
  
Since Sam was in no shape to do any work - and they dared not to make another fire just yet -, Aragorn took upon myself the task to prepare some food. When they had eaten a little, the wizard called a council.  
  
''We cannot, of course, go on again tonight'', he said. ''The attack on the Redhorn Gate had tired us out, and we must rest here for a little while.''  
  
''I stongly advise against tarrying too long'', Legolas shot a glance at the hobbits; then he sighed. ''But I see that you, indeed, have to rest. And if we must halt, then 'tis better during the night, for your eyes are not used to the travel in the dark.''  
  
The hobbits were clearly relieved that they would not have to go on for awhile. They could barely keep their bleary eyes open, and a heavy drowsiness befell all their limbs, despite the invigouring craft of *miruvor*.  
  
Frodo alone seemed still aware of the problem at hand.  
''And then... where are we to go?'', he asked, not even liking the mere concept of going on, obviously.  
  
''We still have our journey and our errand before us'', answered Gandalf. ''We have no choice but to go on... or to return to Rivendell.''  
  
Pippin's face brightened visibly at the mere mention of returning to Elrond's wonderful home; Merry and Sam, too, looked up, full of renewed hope. But Aragorn and Boromir made no sign, and Legolas shook his head sadly. Turning back was not an option, and he knew that, better than al the others, even Mithrandir and Aragorn. For Mithrandir had not yet walked Middle-earth when the Wood-Elves fought the Enemy, two whole Ages long - and Aragorn was but a Man. A good and brave Man, even wise in his own way, among the limits of mortality, but he had no memories of the depths of evil that might come.  
  
Frodo looked troubled. Nothing would he have liked more than sit at the fire in Rivendell, warming his feet at the hearth and talking to Bilbo, sitting at the other side of the same hearth, but...  
''I wish I was back there'', he admitted miserably. ''But how can I return without shame - unless there is, indeed, no other way, and we were already defeated?''  
  
Pippin's face fell and Sam looked as if someone had just set his garden on fire, but the wizard nodded slowly.  
''You are right, Frodo'', he said, ''to go back is to admit defeat.''  
  
''This would be more than simply admit defeat'', added Legolas quietly. ''It would mean to face even worse defeat to come. If we go back now, the Ring must remain in Imladris; for we shall not be able to set out again.''  
  
''But why would that be such a bad thing?'', Gimli asked. ''Is then Elrond not the strongest of the Elf-Lords still remaining in Middle-earth?  
  
''He is'', agreed Legolas. ''Alas, the Dark Lord is aware of that as well. That is why his Eye is turned to Imladris, most of the time. He would notice our return at once. Then sooner or later Imladris would be besieged, and after a brief and bitter time it would be destroyed.''  
  
  
/Imladris, besieged and destroyed!/ Boromir closed his eyes briefly, trying to escape the all-too-vivid vision of the graceful archways in smoking ruins, the crystal waterfalls stained with Elven blood and mutilated corpses of the Fair Folk littering all over the paths of the Valley, while hideous Orc-packs rummage through the time-honoured, wisdom-sanctified halls of the Last Homely House, searching for the Ring...  
  
He reached for the Stone, seeking out desperately the quiet presence of his lover, to make sure that things are still all right there. And even through he agreed with Legolas that they cannot turn back, the thought of any foul creatures approaching that beautiful valley made him furious.  
  
/Fear not/, the gentle voice echoed in his heart, /we can defend ourselves. But *your* path leads not back here./  
  
/I know that/, Boromir replied, without really forming the words; they simply came to him, as always, when he used the Stone, /but I wish your were here with us. With *me*./  
  
/I am/, the inner voice answered, and once again, he felt the ethereal kiss of a loving soul upon his heart, ere Elladan retreated from their touch.  
  
  
Boromir forced himself to listen again. Fortunately, the dispute did not seem to have made much headway during his short absence.  
  
''The Ringwraiths are deadly enemies'', the wizard was explaining to the hobbits, ''but they are only shadows yet of the power and terror they would possess if the Ruling Ring was on their master's hand again.''  
  
The hobbits exchanged frightened looks, but there also was stubborn determination on their friendly little faces. The three younger ones looked at the Ring-bearer as one, signalling clearly that they were ready to follow him, what ever his decision might be.  
  
''Then we must go on; if there is a way'', said Frodo finally, with a heavy sigh.  
He truly, deeply hated it, but there did not seem to be any other chance.  
  
The other hobbits sank back into gloom, Sam even more so than Merry and Pippin, who, at least, had inherited some of the adventurous spirit of their 'queer' ancestors, as it was said in the Shire about Brandybucks and Tooks. Sam, on the other hand, had naught of that spirit. But master Frodo decided to go on, and go on he would. There was no doubt about that in his faithful heart.  
  
''There *is* a way that we may attempt'', said Gandalf. ''I thought from the beginning, when first I considered this journey, that we should try it.''  
  
''Why, then, have you not spoken of it before?'', Boromir asked accusingly. ''Had the Company not had the right to know of an other path ere the two of you almost led us to our deaths in the snow?''  
  
''It is not a pleasant way'', the wizard answered grimly. ''Aragorn was against it, until the pass over the mountains had at least been tried.''  
  
''He was not the only one against it'', said Legolas, bright green eyes burning in a cold fire. ''I warned you, both of you, to walk it, but you keep ignoring my warnings, Mithrandir. It might cause your downfall one day. The memories of the Silvan folk know of evils not even *you* have faced before. We know what we speak of.''  
  
''I know that, my friend'', answered Gandalf with a sigh, ''but sometimes we have to walk dangerous paths, even if we know that we might stumble.''  
  
''Then would you mind to speak of it to us who know it not?'', asked Merrry. ''If it is a worse road than the Redhorn Gate, then it must be evil, indeed.''  
  
''It is'', Legolas said. ''Worse even than you might imagine.''  
  
''Still'', Merry insisted, ''you had better tell us about it, and let us know the worst at once.''  
  
Gandalf sighed. He knew the hobbits well enough to know that nothing but the full truth would satisfy them right now.  
''The road that I speak of leads to the Mines of Moria'', he said.  
  
A dreadful silence followed the mention of that name. All of them had heard of that deep and dark place before, of course. Even to the hobbits, who seldom cared for other races' deeds, it was a legend of vague fear.  
  
Gimli, however, lifted up his head, and there was a smoldering fire in his deep, dark eyes. Short and stout as he was, he seemed to visibly grow in eager anticipation, facing the chance to visit the most sacred place of his people.  
  
No-one else shared his excitement, though.  
  
''The way may lead *to* Moria, but how can we hope that it will lead *through* Moria?'', said Aragorn, and Boromir, much to his dismay, felt the need to agree with the Ranger.  
  
''It is a name of ill omen'', he said. ''Nor do I see the need to go there. There are other ways, safer and well-travelled that we could take.''  
  
''Where would *you* go then?'', countered the wizard sharply. After having fought over the topic with Aragorn more than two moons, the last thing he needed was another argument about it.  
  
Boromir shrugged. It was ridiculous from Gandalf to ask him, since he ahd visited Minas Tirith many times and knew of all the roads that led thither.  
  
''If we cannot cross the mountains, let us journey southwards, until we come to the Gap of Rohan, where Men are friendly to my people'', he suggested, ''taking the road that I followed on my way hither. Or'', he added as a second thought, ''we might pass by and cross the Isen into Langstrand and Lebennin, and so come to Gondor from the region nigh the Sea.''  
  
''Aye; *if* we were to go to Minas Tirith, that would be a route worth considering'', said Aragorn.  
  
''*I am* going to Minas Tirith, what ever path this Company chooses to follow'', replied Boromir flatly. ''And I thought that would be your way, too, Heir of isildur, since you voiced your intention to come with me clearly enough. But maybe you had a change of heart. Maybe you found a thing more dear to you than the safety of the land you intend to rule. So do as you wish. I care not. But *I* have that freedom not. For *my* duty lies in the South, and I shall go home to defend my land - or die trying.''  
  
''Things have changed since you came north, Boromir'', the wizard said hastily, as if to hinder Aragorn in finding an equally harsh answer. ''Did you not hear what I told you of Saruman? With him I may have business of my own ere all is over. But the Ring must not come near Isengard, if that can by any means be prevented. The Gap of Rohan is closed to us while we go with the Ring-bearer.''  
  
''I believe you underestimate the bravery of the Men of Rohan and the ability of their Marshal, Prince Théoden the Brave, to keep his own lands safe'', answered Boromir. '''Tis true that Curunír had fallen into their backs many times, but they can deal with him and his Orcs; and they are faithful to the Steward of Gondor, no matter what lies are told about them. This I am sure of.''  
  
''What do you think of the longer road Boromir has proposed?'', asked Legolas. ''I wish not to get near the Sea, myself, but if the road were safe, I would risk it, regardless of my own comfort.''  
  
He aimed his question at Gandalf, but it was Aragorn who answered:  
''We cannot afford the time. We might spend a year in such a journey, and we should pass through many lands that are empty and harbourless. Yet they would *not* be safe. The watchful eyes both of Saruman and of the Enemy are on them.''  
  
Legolas gave no answer, as if he still did not want to speak to Aragorn, but he seemed strangely relieved. Boromir made a mental notice to ask him about it later, then he turned to Gandalf again.  
''And yet I made the way all alone, except the last short route'', he said.  
  
''True'', the wizard agreed, ''but when you came north, you were in the Enemy's eyes only one stray wanderer from the South and a matter of small concern to him; his mind was busy with the pursuit of the Ring. But you return now as a memeber of the Ring's Company, and you are in peril as long as you remain with us.''  
  
''Boromir rolled his eyes.  
''Mithrandir, I have been in peril ever since I picked up a sword for the first time! I spent my whole life on battlefields, ere I even came of age.''  
  
''There are different kinds of perils'', the wizard replied soberly. ''Some of them darker than others. And the danger will increase with every league we go south under the naked sky.''  
  
''That might be so'', said Boromir, ''yet south we must go, one way or another, no matter what the final goal of every single one of us would be.''  
  
''Since our open attempt on the mountain-pass our plight has become more desperate, I fear'', Gandalf sighed. ''I see now little hope, if we do not soon vanish from sight for awhile, and cover our trail. Therefore I advise that we would go neither over the mountains, nor round them, but under them.''  
  
Legolas shook his head vehemently but said nothing, only his face became even more pale than usual, and there was terror in his eyes. The wizard gave him a compassionate look but stayed steadfast.  
  
''That is a road at any rate that the Enemy will least expect us to take'', he said.  
  
''We do not know what he expects'', said Boromir; Legolas' reaction worried him more than anything, for he knew that few things there were that could frighten the valiant Prince of Mirkwood - yet Moria obviously *was* one of those. ''He may watch all roads, likely and unlikely. In that case to enter Moria would be to walk into a trap, hardly better than knocking at the gates of the Dark Tower itself.''  
  
''You speak of what you do not know, when you liken Moria to the stronghold of Sauron'', answered Gandalf in a dismissive manner.  
  
Boromir raised an irritated eyebrow, tired of being silenced every time he voiced his opinion.  
''Do I not? Which one of us lives under the very shadow of the Black Gate? I have spent my whole life facing the evil horns of Ephel Dúath, so believe me, I know rather well what the Dark Tower looks like.''  
  
''Maybe'', said Gandalf, ''but I alone of you have ever been in the dungeons of the Dark Lord, and only in his older and lesser dwelling in Dol Guldur. Those who pass the gates of Barad-dúr do not return.''  
  
''And those who pass the gates of Moria do?'', Legolas asked, clearly not believing it. ''Even if they carry something with them that calls out to any evil force like a foghorn?''  
  
Gandalf gave him an impatient sigh.  
''I would not lead you into Moria if there were no hope of coming out again.''  
  
''There *is* none'', Legolas stated flatly.  
  
Gandalf shook his head.  
''Nonsense. If there are Orcs there, it may prove ill for us, that is true. But most of the Orcs of the Misty Mountains were scattered or destroyed in the Battle of Five Armies, so there is hope that Moria is still free.''  
  
''There is *none*'', Legolas repeated tersely. ''The Eagles report that Orcs are gathering again from afar; and though they suffered a grave defeat in the Battle of Erebor, as you said, never had all their forces left Moria in order to destroy the Dwarves. Besides, many long years had passed by since that defeat, and their forces in Southern Mirkwood have grown in numbers and in strength.''  
  
''No doubt about that'', agreed the wizard, tiring from the fruitless debate, ''but so have the forces of Dwarves. There is even the chance that in some deep hall of his fathers Balin son of Fundin may be found. However it may prove, one must read the path that need chooses!''  
  
Legolas shook his head in silent despair but did not argue any longer. He was only chosen to defend the Company, not to lead it. So he left the decision to the leaders, even if he vehemently disagreed with the proposed path.  
  
But Gimli the Dwarf stood, proud and stout and his deep eyes burnt with a hidden fire that only dwells in the deep furnaces of Aulë's children.  
  
''I shall tread the path with you, Gandalf'', he said, his broad, hollow face reddening with excitement. ''I shall go and look on the halls of Durin, whatever may wait here - if you can find the doors that are shut.''  
  
''Good, Gimli'', said Gandalf. ''You encurage me. We shall seek the hiden doors together.''  
  
''Do you truly believe that we shall find Balin and his people in the vast halls under the mountains?'' Legolas asked doubtfully. ''Nigh on thirty years have passed, as Glóin has said at the Council, since you got tidings from there at the last time. They might all be dead as far as we know.''  
  
''Dwarves'', said Gimli and his eyes glittered with sudden anger, ''are not so easy to kill.''  
  
''Are they not?'', countered Legolas. ''What if your kindred, in their bottomless greed, delved too deep again? Who knows what evil they might have awaken this time?''  
  
''*You* dare to call *us* greedy?'', Gimli's deep voice rumbled dangerously, like a far-away thunderstorm; it was somewhat surprising to hear such a great voice coming from his short, stout body, for he was rather lean and wiry as Dwarves go, all lean muscles and bones as hard as the very rock under his feet. ''Was it not *your* father who had thrown our people in the deep dungeons and brought war upon us for gold?''  
  
Legolas rose with the deadly grace of a wildcat. The long white knife gleamed cold in his hand; but even more cold were his eyes.  
  
''Say *one* more word about my father, you filthy Dwarf, and it would be your last'', he said in a frighteningly calm voice. ''I have grown tired of lesser people staining his good name - moreso if it comes from one whose forefathers slaughtered the greatest King of my Kin for a mere piece of jewellery. Did you think it has been forgotten? Then let me tell you this, you son of a dog: the blood of Thingol, King of Doriath will ever be there between you and me.''  
  
''That is quiet enough'', said Gandelf sharply. ''Restrain yourself, Legolas! This is not the time to bring out ages-old wrongs to settle - or even newer ones'', he added with a hard look towards Gimli.  
  
The Dwarf gave a slight bow, though still grumbling under his artfully braided beard, but Legolas did not back off so easily. This time, his anger turned towards the wizard.  
  
''Do not give me orders, Mithrandir'', he answered icily, ''for you know naught about our sufferings by the hands of treacherous Dwarves. You were dwelling in the far-away safety of the Blessed Realm when my father, hardly more than a young elfling, barely escaped from the destruction of Doriath with his life. Nor are you my King or my elder to tell me what to do, so care for your own issues and let mine to me.''  
  
''To brings us safely to the other side of the mountains *is* my issue'', Gandalf replied, through his eyes gleamed dangerously, too; for a moment Boromir almost feared the council would end up in violence, Elven magic against wizardry. ''And we *will* come through, with the help of Gimli son of Glóin. In the ruins of the Dwarves, a Dwarf's head will be less easy to bewilder than Elves or Men or Hobbits.''  
  
''If you say so'', Legolas commented drily.  
  
''I do'', said the wizard. ''Also, it will not be the first time that I have been to Moria. I sought there long for Thráin son of Thrór after he was lost. I passed through, and I came out again alive.''  
  
''I, too, once passed the Dimril Gate'', said Aragorn quietly; ''but though I also came out again, the memory is very evil.''  
  
''Of course it is'', countered Legolas, irritated. ''You cannot imagine the terrors that hide under the roots of the mountains!''  
  
''Can *you*?'', asked Gandalf.  
  
The Elf nodded solemnly.  
''I can. I felt it when I crossed the Dimril Gate, a long time ago - longer than all of your lives count together... less than a hundred years after the Dwarves were forced to abandon Moria for the first time. I could feel something very old and incredibly evil moving along the lowest depths of the mines. I know not if it still dwells there, but I do not wish to enter that dark place a second time.''  
  
''And I do not wish to enter it even once'', said Pippin, unconsciously moving closer to Boromir, as if he were seeking protection.  
  
''Nor me'', muttered Sam, shooting a worried look towards his master.  
  
''Of course not!'', said Gandalf. ''Who would? But the question is: who will follow me if I lead you there?''  
  
''I will'', said Gimli eagerly. ''My heart is burning with desire to see the great work of our fathers that were known still to exist in our songs only.''  
  
''And so will I'', said Aragorn heavily. ''You followed my lead almost to our deaths in the snow, and have said no word of blame. So I will follow you now - if Legolas' warnings do not move you.''  
  
'''Tis not the One, nor any of us others that I am worried about'', the Elf added, ignoring the peace offer from the Ranger's side, ''but you, Mithrandir. And I say you: if you pass the gates of Moria, beware. For what ever there is lying under the mountains' root, it will feel the power that is in you and will come to destroy it.''  
  
Whether it was the worry for an old friend or Elven foresight that made him speak thus, Boromir could not guess. Still, those words of warning made the Heir of Gondor uneasy.  
  
''I will *not* go'', he said, ''not unless the vote of the whole Company is against me. What do the little folk say? The Ring-bearer's voice surely should be heard?''  
  
The hobbits said nothing. Sam looked at Frodo, while the two younger ones moved closer to Boromir, without knowing it. Frodo just sat, shivering, until he realized that all eyes were directed at him. Then, at least, he spoke.  
  
''I do not wish to go'', he said, but seeing the relief on all faces, save the wizard's, he hurriedly added, ''but neither do I wish to refuse the advice of Gandalf. I beg that there should be no vote, until we have slept on it. Gandalf will get votes easier in the light of the morning than in this cold gloom.''  
  
Everyone agreed with that, and they laid out their bedrolls under a small hill that somewhat screened them from the wind. Then they set the watch - it would have been Sam's turn once again, but Aragorn took over for him, saying that he had much to think about and therefore would not find sleep anyway.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
My King was not the only one troubled to find sleep. Though every one of us lay down to rest, I could sense that Legolas was not sleeping, either. 'Tis not easy to guess whether an Elf is awake or asleep, due to that annoying habit of theirs that they usually sleep with their eyes open (at least when they are on the way and vigilance is asked for), but I have learnt by now to judge by the changes of their breathing - and Legolas was most certainly awake.  
  
There were no trees at the foot of the hill he could have climbed up, so he simply lay down on the ground, just as the rest of us, only a little apart. I could not guess what made him thus upset, save the fact that we were considering to enter Moria; but he had been agitated for days by now, his temper flashing between hot anger and icy detachment. Mayhap the others, Mithrandir and Aragorn above all, keep forgetting that they are not dealing with a mere archer but a Prince among his own Kin - and a proud and experience-hardened warrior to that.  
  
My little friends curled up on their bedrolls next to me, as it had become their custom during our long and tiresome journey, huddling together under shared blankets, sharing body heat as well as the comfort of having each other close. So did the Ring-bearer and his faithful servant, as far from me as it was possible while staying still with the rest of us.  
  
That was fine with me. I cared not for them any more. Once, during Elrond's Council, I felt great pity for Frodo, having been cursed with such a cruel task, and wanted to help him and to protect him. But he trusted me not, and ever since we set out from Imladris, he had watched me warily, and so did his servant.  
  
So let them follow Mithrandir to the black cavern of Moria, just as they had followed Aragorn to almost-death in the snow. Had I not advised to carry some faggots with us, they might be dead by now, and the Ring had an other Bearer.  
  
I wonder who *that* would be. Would the Heir of Isildur follow the path of his forefather and take it? He certainly was ready to kill me in order to hinder *me* in taking it. But would he have the courage, would he have the strength to wield it? Would he risk to challenge its power for the good of our people?  
  
The Ring. Its whispers are growing louder in my heart as we come closer to other evil things that might hide in deep places under Hithaeglir. And the visions keep getting more and more confusing, and my dreams even darker.  
  
I saw young Peregrin glaring into a globe of dark fire, his face starred with fear; and I saw my father, sitting high up in his secret chamber in Ecthelion's tower, his pale face weary and tense and his eyes haunted. And there was a strange globe in his hands, cut from some dark crystal, and something seemed to move in the inside of it. And though black it was, its eerie glow illuminated the small chamber with an unholy light.  
  
I jerked awake in cold sweat one more time - it seemed to become a custom during this cursed journey - and reached for the Stone to find some solace in the presence of my beloved. I came to understand that he, too, carved these fleeting touches of our souls, so I felt less reluctant to reach out to him, even if I knew that it cost him some of his strength. Having a bond, wanted and needed from both sides, was something new for me, something I never had before - and strangely comforting.  
  
But ere I could give myself over the joys of our connection, I heard quiet voices talking not so far from me. It seemed that Legolas had taken over the watch from Aragorn, but my King was determined to settle things between the two of them. They spoke in the Elven tongue, but in the everyday manner that I understood well enough, so I listened shamelessly.  
  
''... long enough'', Aragorn was saying. ''I shall learn now what makes you such an unpleasant company lately.''  
  
''Let it alone, Aragorn'', Legolas' voice sounded tired; ''you would not like the answer.''  
  
''Let *me* be the judge of that'', the Ranger said.  
  
Legolas shook his head.  
''I already said once, Aragorn: let it alone!''  
  
''What?'', Aragorn asked in slight surprise. ''You call me Estel no longer?''  
  
''I do not'', answered the Elf grimly, ''for you are hope no more.''  
  
My King was so thunderstruck he could not give any answer to that. Legolas sighed and pulled up his knees, resting his chin upon them.  
  
''Today... you would have slain Boromir for the Ring'', he stated sadly.  
  
''We could not leave him take it!'', Aragorn replied in a defensive manner.  
  
''Are you sure that was the only reason you reached for your sword?'', Legolas asked. ''Do you deny that the Ring pulls on you as well? No-one of us is free of its lure, Aragorn, save perhaps the younger hobbits.''  
  
Aragorn did not answer; which was answer enough in itself. Legolas watched his face for awhile, then he added in a low voice:  
  
''Elrond could have ended this whole madness three thousand years ago. All he needed would have been to slay Isildur; and he could have done it, for your forefather had not yet had the time to learn how to use the powers of the Ring. Still, Elrond knew that murdering someone from his own allies would never bring any good, not even if it was done with an acceptable reasoning. What gives *you* the right to raise your sword against Boromir?''  
  
''I was only protecting Frodo!'', said Aragorn, but Legolas shook his head.  
  
''Nay, my friend'', he replied, ''you were protecting *the Ring*. It fills your thoughts and your heart just as it fills Boromir's. Still, I think not you would have reacher for your sword had any one but Boromir found the Ring in the snow.''  
  
''What do you say?'', frowned Aragorn.  
  
''I say that you are jealous beyond measure'', Legolas stated calmly, ''and your jealousy leads every one of your thoughts concerning the Heir of Gondor.''  
  
''Why would I ever be that way?'', asked Aragorn with a forced smile.  
  
''For he had what you did not: a place in the world, a purpose laid out clearly, a duty that had never been questioned by any one'', said Legolas, and I began to wonder whether he had indulged in the forbidden art of reading my thoughts lately; he paused and added as an afterthought. ''Above all these, he also received something you always thought would be yours alone.''  
  
''And that would be...?'', Aragorn seemed close to lose his patience with the Elf.  
  
Legolas shrugged.  
''The love of a Half-Elf, strong enough to diminish the grace of their life and choose the limited lifespan of a mortal.''  
  
''What???'', Aragorn was hardly able to restrain himself from shooting out loud.  
  
And so was I. Legolas sighed.  
  
''It was the wish of Elladan that no-one learns of his choice, least the one he loves, for he did not want to load even more guilt upon an already guilt-ridden heart. But yes, he did make his choice, just as Arwen did, and Elrond gave his blessings to both his choices: his beloved *and* his path.''  
  
''How could he...?''  
  
''How could he what? Give his firstborn the comfort of his blessings? Is that not what a father is supposed to do?''  
  
''He was less forthcoming when Arwen made her choice'', replied Aragorn through gritted teeth. Legolas nodded.  
  
''That is true. But Arwen had never been so tormented by the dual nature of the Peredhil. She was quite content to lead the life of an Elven Princess, until she met you. And so was Elrohir, most of the time, torn between the Sea and Middle-earth, both of which are the concern of Elves. But we both know how loud the mortal blood in Elladan's veins sings. He was the only one whose choice Elrond has feared all the time.''  
  
''Yet he did not chose ere he met Boromir...''  
  
''Nay, he did not, and without the Son of Gondor coming into his life, Elladan would still be struggling with his choice - not being in peace as he finally is'', Legolas gave Aragorn a wry smile. ''Or did you expect him to bond himself to a mortal and sail to the West after his beloved's death?''  
  
Aragorn murmured somethign that I did not understand... nor did I truly care. What I had just overheard struck me like a poisoned arrow. Now I began to understand those strange visions about my beloved, lying aged and peacefully upon my abandoned death bed on the Rath Dínen.  
  
He had made his choice. The choice that all of Elrond's children were given: to sail with him to the West or to remain behind and become mortal. I knew that the Lady Undómiel had chosen the latter, out of love to Aragorn, but how could Elladan...? I was *not* to become King, I was promised to an other - and my heart belonged to someone else. What could I have given him to make such a sacrifice worthwhile?  
  
/'Tis no sacrifice/, his gentle voice answered, and I found that I had grabbed the Stone without knowing of it, /you have given me something I lacked all my life: a reason to choose./  
  
I lingered for a moment in his presence, thankful for our bond that could give both of us such comfort, for not even the intimacy of our lovemaking would provide such closeness as the sharing of our souls did, and I wished I could love him like he deserves.  
Like he loved me.  
  
/You loved me well enough/, came his quiet laughter through our bond, and I smiled, too, though we both knew that we were speaking - well, thinking - of different kinds of love. Yet I could not deny that, in a way, I *did* love him... as much as I was abke tim with my heart occupied and with a promise given to an other.  
  
/And that is quite enough/, he added; then he was gone again.  
  
Maybe he was right. I shall always love my brother, no-one could ever take his place in my heart (and, alas, nor in my forbidden desire), but that love was a dream that would never be fulfilled. I might have fallen in the battle against my treacherous heart, and never shall it be cleaned from this shame - but lying in the arms of my lover was *real*, and in the warmth of his body curled up against my back, in the safety of his graceful limbs wrapped around me, in the softness of his voice singing to me in the darkness, low and sweet, there was peace.  
  
A peace I never felt before and never hoped to feel any more - til I detected that through the Stone I can taste its sweetness again.  
  
I wonder if I have inherited the foresight of our Númenórean ancestors after all. Earlier it was thought that only Father and Faramir were burdened with this cursed gift. But mayhap it had always been there, lying dormant in the depths of my heart, waiting for a call to awake, and having touched the soul of my beloved woke it from its deep slumber.  
  
If that is so, then my life truly will be over, soon. I do not regret it. There will be changes, no matter whether the Ring-bearer will succeed or fall, and I am not eager to live to see them. I would have served the new King of Gondor, as duty and honour demanded, but at the end I am glad that I shall not see our House be remowed from power. For we did not deserve it. We served Gondor faithfully and well.  
  
But changes are inevitable, and I know that and I came to accept that. So be it. May the Heir of Isildur reign if he wants - I only wish I could be sure of his devotion towards our land and our people... as sure as I can be mine or my father's.  
  
I wish I could be sure that our beautiful city would remain.  
  
Knowing that sleep would now elude me for certain, I heavily got to my feet and walked over to the watchpost. Aragorn and Legoals now were sitting in silent thought and only gave me a surprised look. I shrugged. What could I possibly say to them?  
  
Mithrandir, too, stirred restlessly in his sleep, disturbed maybe by the loud snoring of the Dwarf, then suddenly he sat up and looked around as if listening. We followed his lead, but all we could hear - save Gimli, of course - was the wind hissing among the rocks and trees; but there also was a howling and wailing round us in the empty spaces of the night.  
  
''How the wind howls!'', I remarked absently. ''Would this fell weather never have an end?''  
  
The others litened, too; then Legolas leapt to his feet.  
''It is howling with wolf-voices'', he stated grimly. ''The Wargs have come west of the Mountains!''  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
Next, as I've already promised, we shall see some of those wolves. Then this particular story will reach its end - before the gate of Moria! 


	10. Chapter 9: Howling in the Wind

OF SNOW AND STONE AND WOLVES  
by Soledad Cartwright  
  
Disclaimer:  
The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun.  
  
Rating: PG - 13, for heavy angst stuff and implied m/m interaction.  
  
  
AUTHOR'S NOTES:  
  
Now that we finally reached the point where our heroes have to face the Wargs, it's the honest thing to place some warnings here for you.  
  
First and foremost: this one is a chapter I *had* to write, for continuity's sake, and because I put the darn beasts in the title. It took me more energy than I needed for the rest of the story - for all my stories put together, in fact. I can only hope that it's still any good, in spite of all the suffering it had cost me.  
  
Second: the people who *can* write wolves, are Dwimordene and Thundera Tiger. So, if you want real action with the cursed beasts, you'd better go and read their stuff. True, there will be Wargs here, too, but the emphasis is on other things, as usual. Things that action-friends might find boring.  
  
Third: all those Wood-Elven customs Legolas is speaking about, have been made up by me, completely out of thin air. I couldn't find any canon facts that would support my ideas - but neither any that would contradict them, so I stuck with my own imaginations.  
  
Now you have been properly warned. Should you still be with me, I shall love you for eternity - go on and enjoy!  
  
  
CHAPTER NINE - HOWLING IN THE WIND  
  
Gandalf stirred restlessly in his sleep, disturbed maybe by the loud snoring of the Dwarf, then suddenly he sat up and looked around as if listening. Aragorn, Boromir and Legolas followed his lead, but all they could hear - save Gimli, of course - was the wind hissing among the rocks and trees; but there also was a howling and wailing round them in the empty spaces of the night.  
  
''How the wind howls!'', Boromir remarked absently. ''Would this fell weather never have an end?''  
  
The others listened, too; then Legolas leapt to his feet.  
  
''It is howling with wolf-voices'', he stated grimly. ''The Wargs have come west of the Mountains!''  
  
Aragorn, too, got to his feet swiftly and ran to wake the Ring-bearer, while Boromir and Legolas tried to shake some consciousness into the other deadly weary hobbits. Gimli jerked awake on his own from all the protesting noises the little folk had made.  
  
Needless to say, the hobbits were devastated by the news. Wolves had ever been feared among their kin, more so since the Fell Winter - and Bilbo's adventures with the Wargs only added fuel to their general fear.  
  
''I doubt that the Eagles would come to help us this time'', Merry sighed.  
  
''Nay, I think not, either'', Pippin agreed glumly.  
  
''Need we wait til morning, then?'', asked Gandalf pointedly. ''It is as I said. The hunt is up! Even if we live to see the dawn, who now will wish to journey south by the night with the wild wolves on his trail?''  
  
/Are you satisfied now, Mithrandir? Now that we shall be forced to take that evil and dangerous way that you had in your mind ever since we set out?/  
Boromir glared at the wizard full of mistrust. Why would he intend to go through the Dwarf-mines when both Aragorn and Legolas were against it?  
  
But out loud the son of Denethor only asked:  
''How far is Moria?''  
  
''There was a door south-west of Caradhras, some fifteen miles as the crow flies and maybe twenty as the wolf runs'', answered Gandalf grimly.  
  
Boromir glanced at the clearly miserable hobbits on his side. They did not look as if they were able to go on just yet.  
  
''We have to find a place where we can defend ourselves'', he said, ''and then start as soon as it is light tomorrow. The wolf that one hears is worse than the Orc that one fears.''  
  
This was meant as a joke, not unlike the nursery rhymes he was taught in his childhood, and indeed, it seemed to cheer up Pippin a little. But Aragorn, of course, could not let him have even this small satisfaction.  
  
''True!'', the Heir of Isilur said, loosening his sword in its sheath. ''But where the Warg howls, ther also the Orc prowls.''  
  
Boromir rolled his eyes to that silly rhyme. Why some people felt the need to create bad poetry while they clearly had no gift for it, was beyond his understanding.  
  
''I wish I had taken Elrond's advice'', muttered Pippin, thank to Aragorn's poetic efforts now miserable again. ''I am no good, after all. There is not enough of the breed of Bandobras the Bullroarer in me: these howls freeze my blood. I cannot even remember feeling so wretched.''  
  
''You are not the only one who feels wretched'', said Legolas and shivered visibly. ''Can you feel them, Aragorn?''  
  
The Ranger seemed as if listening for a moment, then he shook his head.  
  
''Nay, my friend, I cannot. They are still too far for a Man to sense them - even for me, though I have hunted for wolves with your people many times.''  
  
''*I can* feel them'', the deep, hollow voice of Gimli said; the Dwarf stood silently, his deep-set, round eyes burning. '''Tis a feeling as if something dark had entered the woods around us... and evil presence, like a black cloud, lays in the air. My father has often told me how it feels, but now I can sense it myself. They are no ordinary wolves.''  
  
''Of course not'', replied Legolas, clearly irritated. ''They are Wargs, I told you so - and lots of them. 'Tis an unusually large pack... or more packs hunting together.''  
  
''Your kind hunts these foul beasts all the time'', said Gandalf; ''what is your advice? Should we lay still and wait for them to cross the woods?''  
  
Legolas shook his head.  
''Nay, there is no hope that darkness and silence would keep our trail from discovery by the hunting packs. Like all wolves, Wargs follow their noses; and once they have picked up our scent, they would not let us alone.''  
  
''But we cannot stay here where we have no cover!'', said Boromir. ''The little ones would stand no chance, not even against ordinary wolves.''  
  
''True'', Legolas agreed. ''Let us climb to the top of this hill and see what we can find there for our defense.''  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
Aragorn and Mithrandir agreed, and so we climbed to the top of the small hill under which we had been sheltering. It was crowned with a knot of old and twisted trees, about which lay a broken circle of boulder-stones. Mayhap it was a small watchpost at the time of the North-kingdom; if so, we still had some hope to defend it successfully.  
  
The Dwarf walked around the stone circle, knocking every single rock-piece with the dull back of his great axe, testing if they would hold against a massed assault, and found our defense perimeter satisfying. Yet though he grumbled something about ''good, solid stonework'', his eyes were still haunted. The things his father had told him about the Wargs must have been highly unsettling.  
  
As for my part, I never had any encounters with the foul beasts of the Enemy, but there were some Rangers in Faramir's troup in Ithilien who had fled from the North to our land, and tongues get loose at campfires, so I have heard tales about Wargs - horrible tales that told about their shrewd and vicious nature, how they never gave up once they had picked up a trail, how they preferred living prey, and how many of them had been raised on the flesh of Elves and Men, so that they would despise lesser prey and thirst for our blood.  
  
Aye, I could understand the fear of the little folk, and in spite of my liking for young Peregrin, I wanted for not the first time that Elrond had, indeed, sent him and Meriadoc home, tied up in a sack if necessary. Mayhap we had now Elrond's sons with us if he did, who are seasoned warriors and used to the harsh life in the Wild - or, at least, Elladan...  
  
Nay, I cannot let my thoughts go that way, not now! I must stay focussed. I am one of the three true warriors in our midst; our lives can depend on my attention and the sharpness of my senses.  
  
I left the fire that Gimli had lit in the midst of the circle where the others were dozing uneasily and went to Legolas who stood silently and motionlessly at a gap in the low stone wall, guarding the entrance like a young tree in the wind-still air. In his soft grey cloak he was almost indistinguishable from the shadows, only his eyes glittered brighter than the stars abowe.  
  
''Can you feel them?'', I asked him in a harsh whisper.  
  
''All Elves can sense the approach of evil'', he answered in a low voice, ''and we of the Silvan folk have a particularly keen sense for Wargs, having lived in their neighborhood for many long centuries. The darkness of their presence lays heavily upon my mind.''  
  
''How far are they?'', I continued, wanting to know what I had to count on, as any good soldier would. I might not be the leader of our pathetic little group, but at least I knew how to fight. And so did the Elf, obviously.  
  
''Close'', he said, ''and closing up swiftly. There are more than just one hunting pack, I fear. We shall be besieged ere the sun rises.''  
  
''Do we have a chance?'', I asked, knowing that of all my travelling companions, Legolas most certainly would not lie to me.  
  
The Elf shrugged.  
'''Tis hard to say. The hobbits shall not be much of a help, though the fire and these stones might provide us some protection. And forget not Mithrandir who can wield fire like a weapon; Wargs hate fire and fear it, just as ordinary wolves do.''  
  
''Yet you are not happy with our position'', I stated, for the distress on his fair face was obvious.  
  
''Nay'', he admitted honestly, ''this place feels like a rat-trap. Were I with my own people, I would prefer to go over the trees and fight the Wargs from there. But neither hobbits, nor Men are made to leap from branch to branch like a squirrel, so we have to defend ourselves on the ground.''  
  
What he just had said, stirred up many curious questions in my mind.  
''Have you often hunted Wargs in Mirkwood?'', I asked.  
  
''All the time'', he answered with a slight shrug, ''or else they would kill all the deer and the wild boars and we would starve. There is not much else to eat in Mirkwood, other than wild berries, mushrooms and honey. The earth is soaked with evil in so many places, it refuses to bring out any tended fruits.''  
  
I pondered about this tidbit of news for a while. After having spent two moons in the blessed abundance of Imladris, I never thought of Elves living in poverty. The few sharp reactions of Legolas I had witnessed during our journey suddenly began to make sense. Mayhap Mirkwood was not the best place to live in, not even for Wood-Elves.  
  
''How old were you when you faced your first Warg?''  
  
I knew not myself where *that* question had come from, but all of a sudden I would have very much liked to know the answer. Fortunately, Legolas did not take any offense.  
  
''Twelve'', he said. ''I can remember clearly, for that is an important threshold in the life of a Wood-Elf. 'Tis called te 'First Circle'. Turning twelve, we leave the sole care of our mother and begin our training in archery. Of course, we all can handle a bow by then already; I received my first bow when I was only six. But reaching te First Circle means that we can go out with the hunters for the first time.''  
  
''They took you out to a Warg-hunt at the age of twelve?'', I asked, utterly bewildered. Were these Wood-Elves all mad?  
  
Legolas laughed.  
''Nay, of course not. We hunted for deer... but Mirkwood was a very dark place back then, worse ever than it is now. I got separated from the hunting party and lost my bearings, for I had never been so far away from home before... a lost, confused child I was, easy prey for a hungry Warg.''  
  
I felt the blood chill in my veins.  
''You were attacked? How did you survive at all?''  
  
''I knew it not at that time, but I was not very far from the others'', the Prince of Mirkwood answered, his eyes taking on that far-away look Elves always have upon them when walking in the vast halls of their memories. ''So near, in truth, that my brothers heard my screams when the Warg leapt at me and rushed to my aid. But I had been severely mauled by then'', he shot me a wry grin. ''I would show you the marks all over my body, but the scars have considerably faded during the last three-thousand-and-some years. They can only be seen in direct sunlight.''  
  
I shuddered involuntarily.  
''You could have died, back then.''  
  
''I very nearly have'', he nodded soberly, ''and my recovery was a long and painful one, for Warg bites get easily infected and are slow to heal, even by Elves. So be grateful for your mail shirt and forget not to wear your wrist-guards and gauntlet. It could spare you much pain.''  
  
''But what about the Halflings?'', I asked. ''They are just as small as you have been at the age of twelve.''  
  
''Nay, they are smaller'', Legolas said, ''but we shall put them up the trees once the Wargs get close. That way we would not have to divide our forces to protect them on the ground. Wargs cannot climb trees. At the end, they are naught but evil beasts.''  
  
''So they are not sentient?'', I felt a little surprised. ''The old tales I have heard all suggested that they had a mind and a will of their own.''  
  
''They have'', the Elf Prince shrugged; ''as do all birds and beasts, good or evil alike, and even most trees. But naught more. Wargs used to be ordinary wolves once, ere the Enemy infested their kin with the blood of werewolves and thus turned them evil. Still, in their very core they are interested in one thing only: the prey.''  
  
''Which, in this case, would be us'', I added sourly.  
  
To my surprise, Legolas grinned at me. Nay, this was not his usual radiant smile that seemed to clear up the sky on a rainy day. It was a wide, honest-to-earth grin, from one warrior to another.  
  
''Fret not so much'', he said, ''we are not eaten yet.''  
  
''Mayhap not'', I answered with a wary look at Bill the pony who trembled and sweated where he was, ''but I fear that dinner time might be close.''  
  
For now I, too, began to feel the weight of a growing evil presence all around me. It was different from the Nameless Fear in Osgiliath, and still at some distance, but just as threatening.  
  
''We have to warn to others'', I murmured.  
  
''They know it already'', Legolas replied with a quick glance backwards. ''Go, help them get the hobbits up the trees. I shall remain here and watch, for my senses are the keenest.''  
  
I did as I was told, for he was right, of course, and soon the halflings were all safely seated up on the few trees that grow inside the stone circle rather than outside it, like small songbirds. They did not like it, thus much I could tell, and Peregrin muttered something about the whole situation reminding him too much of Bilbo's adventures to his liking. Apparently, the old midget I had met in Imladris did have some unpleasant encounter with Wargs. I made a mental notice to ask my little friends about it later - should we be spared from the belly of the foul beasts.  
  
The howling of the wolves now was all around us, sometimes nearer and sometimes further off, and with it came that dread feeling, too. It lay heavily upon my heart, and I was sorely tempted to seek a moment of relief through the Stone, yet I dared not. According to the tales I was told, Wargs were quick as lightning; I could not risk any distractions if I wanted to be any good for the Halflings' defense.  
  
''They have come'', the low voice of Legolas broke through my musings. The Elf retreated from his watchpost to join the rest of us.  
  
I followed his icy glare. In the dead of night many shining eyes could be seen, yellow as brimstone, peering over the brow of the hill. Some advanced almost to our stone ring, and I felt myself swallow hard. I would never have admitted such weakness, but I was afraid.  
  
More than that: I was scared to death.  
  
This was an enemy I never fought before, and that put me to serious disadvantage. I knew not the strength of these beasts, nor their customs or fighting tactics.  
  
I only knew they lived on the flesh of Elves and Men.  
And that filled my heart with the midnless terror of a frightened child.  
  
Orcs I could handle. I have fought them all my life, I knew what they were like and what I could expect. They were a menace, for sure, but at least a well-known one.  
  
Trolls, they were a different kind of monsters. They had become rare in the South, but they still dwelt in some deep caves in South Ithilien, not to mention the ones that served still in Mordor's armies. They were a devastating force of destruction, but they alwo were slow-witted and clumsy. So, I could handle them, too.  
  
The Wild Men of the East and the Haradrim, I could even understand. They were only Men, after all, driven by the urges and needs and passions and fears shared by all people of Mankind. So they were no mystery for me.  
  
But these beasts here... they made my skin tingle and my blood churn. How is a Man supposed to fight a foe whose only urge is to tear him to pieces and eat him? There was a hunger older than the greed of Men, and a horror deeper than any battlefield could call forth.  
  
A slender hand touched my arm lightly, and the soft voice of Legolas whispered, audible only for me:  
  
''They are just mindless, evil beasts. Kill them, and they are gone - naught remains for them, no ill will, no ghosts to haunt you afterwards.''  
  
I shot him a quick glance and saw that he was pale in the moonlight, more so than usually, and I understood that he, too, was, if not truly afraid, then certainly very tense.  
  
I could not blame him; these beasts could drive a grown Man mad with the evil they emanated, and Elves are much more sensitive to these feels than we are. And Legolas had had his own, very real experience with them to fuel his unease.  
  
What must it have been like for a twelve-year-old elfling to face such a monster and nearly get eaten by it? He was probably smaller than the Warg itself. It had to be a very long recovery, indeed. How long did it take him to recover enough to face them again?  
  
''Sometimes'', he murmured as if he had read my thoughts, ''facing our fears is the only way to keep our sanity. It took me another twelve years til I went to wolf-hunt with my brothers - and have never ceased to hunt them since that day.''  
  
He broke off, giving a shrill whistle of alert through his teeth and raising his bow. I followed his aim and saw a great, dark wolf-shape at the gap of our stone circle. It was very large - almost as large as the poor pony shaking like a leaf behind the fire - and gazed at us from slanted, cold yellow eyes. Then it threw back his shaggy head, bared its gleaming fangs and a shuddering howl broke from it, summoning the packs to assault.  
  
To my utter bewilderment, Mithrandir now left the fire he had guarded so far and strode forward, holding his staff aloft.  
  
''Listen, Hound of Sauron!'', he cried. ''Gandalf is here. Fly, if your value your foul skin! I shall shrivel you from tail to snout, if you come within this ring!''  
  
I gave a derisive snort, for all that wizardry had obviously clouded the old man's mind at the end. Did he truly believe he could impress these foul beasts wih empty threats? Mayhap such a trick would work with obtrusive Halflings, but certainly not with Wargs. Even less so with hungry ones.  
  
The wolf seemed to share my opinion, for it snarled and sprang towards us wit a great leap - so sudden, indeed, that I did not even find the time to draw my sword. Now I understood why all the tales *loved* to describe the greet speed of these monsters. Alone I would not have had half a chance against them.  
  
Thank the Valar, I was *not* alone, though. There was a sharp tang as Legolas loosed his bow, and an Elven arrow hissed past my ear with a high-pitched whine. There was a hideous yell, and the leaping shape thudded to the ground: Legolas' arrow had pierced its throat.  
  
I waited for a mass assault from the wolves, but it never came. Even the watching eyes were suddenly extinguished. Mithrandir and Aragorn volunteered to stride forward, but they came back with no news. The hill was deserted; the hunting packs fled.  
  
''Is it over?'', I asked Legolas, for I did not want to give my King-to-be a chance to put on that smug face of his again. The Elf nodded.  
  
''For now. They shall be back, soon - as soon as a new lead wolf had successfully fought for that position. This will be a long ad hard fight. Go to sleep, you shall be in need of your strength in the morrow.''  
  
I saw the wisdom in his words and did as I was told. We helped the little ones down from the trees and they cuddled together near the fire to try and find some sleep when Legolas kept watch.  
  
All about us the darkness grew silent, and no cry came on the sighing wind. Yet we all knew that this was a treacherous peace.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
The night was old, and westward the waning moon was setting, gleaming fitfully through the breaking clouds. Boromir lay a little apart from the others, halfway between the fire and Legolas' watchpost, unable to sleep. He yearned to touch the Stone, to lose himself in the warm presence of Elladan, to bask in the memories of their shared passion that the Stone could bring back so vividly that it almost felt real, but he dared not. It would have been too much of a distraction, now, that he needed all his senses sharp like daggers.  
  
There were strange moments of temptation, stronger even than any lure of the Ring, to cast the whole quest away and turn back; to run straight back to Imladris and into Elladan's arms. To forget even his obligation towards his land and his people. The need to be loved again was so painful, it nearly clouded his mind. Had his father's heavy hand not beaten an unerring sense of duty into his heart, he might have faltered. He might have broken his given word to the Ring-bearer and his oath to the Steward of Gondor and returned to the one who loved him.  
  
To the one he needed above all else.  
  
/Just one more time/, he whispered tonelessly to any higher power that might have been listening, /let me taste love one more time. I ask for naught else./  
  
But the Lord Denethor had raised his Heir properly to take over his seat one day, and Boromir knew with a bitter certainty that his request will not be granted. For he was not allowed to be weak. Duty came first and foremost, just like it had come for his father through all his long life, and what ever his heart (or his flesh) might have yearned for, was of little consequence.  
  
Suddenly, without any warning, a storm of howls broke out fierce and wild all about their camp, startling him from his thoughts. Legolas' estimate had been right: a great host of Wargs had gathered silently and was now attacking them from every side at once. Boromir gritted his teeth, shoving Pippin behind him, while Legolas did the same with Merry. The attack came so sudden they had no time to put the hobbits up the trees again.  
  
''Fling fuel on the fire!'', cried Gandalf to the hobbits. ''Draw your blades, and stand back to back!'' As if the little ones had any chance to face one of those beasts.  
  
In the leaping light, as the fresh wood blazed up, Boromir saw many grey shapes spring over the ring of stones. More and more followed as he watched them, seemingly weightless as the dark ash clouds floating above Mordor's black fields, yet quick and determined as the black arrows of Orcs in a fierce battle.  
  
''Look out for the lead wolves!'', Legolas warned them, wielding his long, white knives with the deadly grace of a dancer, whirling around like the wind and striking with a brutal force that no-one would have expected from a being of such elegance; his eyes gleamed dangerously, and for a moment there was a disturbing alikeness between him and the beasts of the Wild. ''Should we succeed to kill them, the rest might flee.''  
  
The others followed his lead, aiming at the greatest and wildest Wargs they presumed would be the leaders. Aragorn passed his sword through the throat of one with a thrust, while Boromir hewed the head off another with a great sweep, relieved that these were ordinary beasts after all and could be killed by ordinary weapons. Beside him Gimli stood with his stout legs apart, wielding his dwarf-axe, his every strike hitting its target unerringly.  
  
For a moment they won some breathing room, enough for Legolas to grab his bow again and send arrow after arrow towards the attacking Wargs, hitting yellow eyes or furred throats every time. He stretched his bow with such incredible strength that many of his arrows went straight through some wolf's heavily muscled neck, the point of them coming out on the other side.  
  
Still, he was not content with his own achievments.  
  
''If I only had a good longbow, like the ones the Galadhrim use is Lórien'', he said through clenched teeth, ''I might keep them from coming this close.''  
  
For regardless of all their efforts, the evil beasts kept coming, and Legolas' quiver was getting empty rapidly. The sheer number of the Wargs was overwhelming, their speed and wildness a force that was hard to withstand, even for an Elf, and Boromir was increasingly concerned about the hobbits. Should one of the great wolves break through their defenses, the little ones' fate was sealed.  
  
Legolas, too, must have realized the hopelessness of their situation, for he looked around in cold fury as if searching for something - or someone.  
  
''Mithrandir!'', he hissed, gritting his teeth in frustration, ''I suggest you finally *do* something!''  
  
In the wavering firelight Gandalf seemed suddenly to grow, as if he had only been waiting for someone to call out to him: he rose up, a great, menacing shape, seemingly taller than the hills themselves, as the old tales said the Lords of the West to be if they wanted. Stooping like a cloud, he lifted a burning brench and strode forth to face the Wargs.  
  
''Back!'', Legolas shouted to the others. ''Give him room to handle! Get out of his reach, or you, too, shall burn!''  
  
Aragorn and Boromir retreated hurriedly, and Gimli followed them after a moment of doubt. The burning branch in Gandalf's hand cracked ominously, some other power than ordinary fire working under its smoldering bark. Legolas stretched his bow, the last arrow set on the string.  
  
The wolves backed off a few yards before the frightening presence of the wizard. Their only remaining leader - a huge, silver-furred beast with fangs like bent daggers - gathered the strongest of them on his side, preparing for a new and lethal attack, while the others tightened their circle around the stone ring. A deadly silence came upon the hill, until Gandalf broke it, tossing the blazing brand high in the air, making it flare with a sudden, searing white flame like lightning, and crying out in a voice like rolling thunder:  
  
''Naur an edraith ammen! Naur dan i ngaurhoth!''  
  
There was a roar and a crackle, and Legolas made a great leap backwards, shouting to the others to follow him, for the tree above them burst into a leaf and bloom of blinding flame. The Elf stolpered and involuntarily loosed his bow, shooting his last arrow off with no aim. At the same moment the huge lead wolf sprang away, straight towards him, and the others followed like a dark cloud.  
  
A series of highly creative Elven curses were overtoned by Gandalf's second command. The fire blazed up again, leaping from tree-top to tree-top. The whole hill was crowned with dazzling light; Boromir saw his own sword flicker like a living flame as it went through a large, furred body. Legolas' lost arrow kindled in the air as it flew, and plunged burning into the heart of the huge lead Warg, while the Elf sliced the throat of another one with his long knife.  
  
Seeing the last wolf-chieftain falling, a frightened howl broke out from the back lines of the Wargs, and all of a sudden they turned and fled, with their tails between their legs.  
  
''Are they gone for good?'', Pippin inquired, shaking with fear as he looked at the hideous monsters lying around, threatening even in their death.  
  
''I know not, Master Peregrin'', Boromir answered tiredly, and looked at the Elf who was still cursing in several Elven tongues (including Doriathrin that was no common knowledge, even among Elves), examining the ruined sleeves of his favourite leather tunic and the long, bloody claw-marks on his upper arms. ''Legolas? What say you? Are they gone?''  
  
''I hope so'', the Prince of Mirkwood shrugged off his tunic and - wiping his long knife clean in the silver fur of the dead Warg -, he simply cut the shredded sleeves about a hand's breadth shorter ere he put the damaged piece of clothing back on. ''But we have to make sure no-one has remained behind to spy upon us. Aragorn'', he called out to the Ranger in a commanding tone Boromir was sure no-one else would allow himself with the Heir of Isildur, ''come with me! Boromir, you stay with the hobbits.''  
  
''But you are injured'', Aragorn protested, ''let me take a look at those wounds!''  
  
''Later'', Legolas winked impatiently, ''they are but scratches and matter little. 'Tis more important that we scout around the hill right now.''  
  
To Boromir's surprise, Aragorn gave in and left with the Elf. The son of Denethor helped the Dwarf to drag the wolf carcasses away from their fire so that the shaken and exhausted hobbits could lie down and rest a little. Gandalf retreated under the trees, outside the ring of stones, mumbling to himself darkly. Despite their unexpected victory, he seemed to be in a very bad mood.  
  
Slowly the fire died till nothing was left but falling ash and sparks; a bitter smoke, like that from Mount Doom, curled above the burned tree-stumps and blew darkly from the hill. Boromir sat on the ground, tucking Merry and Pippin under his cloak as he did when they were fighting Caradhras, waiting for their scouts to return.  
  
As the first light of dawn came dimly in the sky, Aragorn and Legolas finally came back, exhausted, but with relief written clearly on their faces.  
  
''What did you find?'', Boromir asked the Elf quietly.  
  
''Nothing'', Legolas answered with a tired voice. ''It seems they are truly gone. And so should be we, as long as we still can.''  
  
But Aragorn shook his head.  
  
''We cannot go on right now. Even if we could get the hobbits to their feet, which I very much doubt, Gandalf has drained his own strength with that last trick. He *must* recover ere we set our journey forth.''  
  
Legolas shot a glance at the wizard and nodded grimly.  
  
''Fine. We wait till the full light of day comes - but not a moment longer. This place is evil. I can feel it in my very bones. The longer we tarry here, the greater the peril grows.''  
  
Once more Boromir was surprised that Aragorn did not protest, though he had to admit, it came naturally to obey Legolas when he was in full ''Prince of Mirkwood''-mood. The authority the Elf radiated in these real moments of true leadership let one forget his beauty and youthful apprearance and see his strength and wisdom only.  
  
''Then let me, at least, tend to your injuries'', Aragorn asked, accepting his defeat.  
  
''Of course'', Legolas nodded. ''Now that we have the time, it would be foolish of me to refuse proper treatment. I shall need all my strength for the next part of our journey. For I fear we are going from twilight to true darkness when we set forth.''  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
End note:  
Well, the torturous wolf chapter is finally over.  
Unfortunaltey, stetching it so long meanst that I will have to add one more chapter, in order to round up the story properly - especially because I still haven't figured out what the heck happened to all those dead wolves in the next morning.  
Any ideas? 


	11. Chapter 10: The Morrow After

**OF SNOW AND STONE AND WOLVES**

**by Soledad Cartwright**

Disclaimer:

The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun.

Rating: PG – 13, for heavy angst stuff and implied m/m interaction.

**Author's notes:**

Now, this chapter is but a short afterthought, intended to close the story properly. Thank for all the suggestions concerning the dead Wargs – I've listened to you, guys, and decided to follow the Great Maker's path and leave the question unsolved. Legolas wasn't happy with my decision, but since he couldn't offer anything either… g

And since I was in such a generous mood, I granted poor Boromir his wish to be loved once more – though he might have had a different idea of how it should have happened.

This is something I've written specially for Deborah – I hope this was what you've had in mind, Lady!

Isabeau (of Greenlea), I also hope you are happy with me now. This has been ''your'' story, and as you ordered, I've finally finished it – and, truth to be told, I'm insanely happy about this fact. It has taken much too long.

**CHAPTER TEN: THE MORROW AFTER**

I watched my King tending to the Elf's wounds which, according to Legolas' face, must have been more painful than they looked. After that, there was a small quarrel between the two of them, considering who should keep the watch til full sunrise. Legolas won it with the argument that the pain would not let him find any sleep, so he could as well watch our dreams.

The Halflings collapsed into one entangled heap of limbs and blankets, and even Mithrandir lay down at the end, admitting his bone-deep weariness. Gimli was already snoring loudly, yet it did not seem to bother any one, not even Aragorn, though he lay next to the Dwarf.

Yet Legolas was not the only one who had trouble to find sleep. Though I retreated so far from the snoring Dwarf as I could without leaving our resting place altogether, my eyes kept popping open on their own. The weariness of the fight, the looming evil that came even from the dead Wargs laying not too far away, robbed me from my much-needed rest.

As I turned to my other side for what seemed the hundredth time, I felt a hand touching my shoulder lightly, and I looked up into the pale, tired face of Legolas.

'''Tis no good'', the Elf said in a low voice; ''Why do you not try to find solace? You have the means to do so – use it!''

I knew he referred to the Stone, but I wished not to disturb Elladan in his sleep. Elf or not, even he needed his rest, now more so than at other times, or so my troubled dreams about Imladris had let me guess.

''He needs _you_ more than he needs rest'', Legolas murmured, ''take not this comfort from him… or from yourself. I wish _I_ had the means to find comfort this way.''

''You have not?'', I asked in surprise, after all his… relationship with the Lord of Imladris had lasted near five hundred years by now.

He shook his head.

''We are not _bound_ – and shall never be'', he said, raising, ''for 'tis only allowed once in an Elf's life, no matter how long it lasts. Be no fool, son of Gondor. Take the gift that is offered to you. 'Tis rare and should be cheerished.''

With that, he left me and returned to his watchpost.

I struggled for a short while with my overwhelming need to rest in the presence of my beloved again – then I realized the wisdom of Legolas' words and gave in. The Elf was right, after all. I would be a fool to reject a gift like this. A gift that pleasured the giver as much as it pleasured the one whom it was given.

My fingers tasted after the Stone. It was warm as always, slightly warmer than my own skin. I stroked its smooth surface with my thumb and felt the warmth sicker through my skin, spreading through my whole body, luring me into that enchanted state where I could feel the weightless touch of my lover upon my heart… my soul… my very being.

First it seemed to me as if I heard his voice, one of the songs he used to sing to me when I had trouble sleeping, even in our shared bed. He told me once that he was not considered a good singer, not among Elves anyway, but I always found his voice beautiful… enchanting… utterly sensuous. As I now listened to him through our bond and that strange magic that worked in the Stone, it was as if he came closer and closer, til I finally could _feel_ him touching me.

Not that ethereal touch of souls I had already known from our earlier encounters through the bond – it was a real touch, though so feather-light as a gente breeze… almost too light to be felt at all.

But it was there. First touching my lips, then my face, then enveloping my whole body like a soft, silken blanket, whisper-light and yet comfortingly warm.

And then we merged. Body and soul.

We became one being in a way I could never imagine before.

I can only guess this is how Elves mate with their souls as well as with their bodies, once they have found their soul-mates. And once they have found each other, it bonds them for eternity.

I never thought it would be possible between us. I am a mere Man, after all, no Elf.

And my beloved is not even here.

Not bodily, at least.

Yet he was.

He filled me more completely than any union of bodies could have done.

He was me and I was him.

And then I saw the Light.

The undying Light, raining golden and silvery like sunrays bathing in a fresh spring rain, soaking our merged being through and through.

And then we _became_ the Light, dancing in the gold and silver rain, becoming one with it, as it washed away all the pain and the sorrows of our lives.

And so we finally have come to rest.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

''What happened to him?'', Pippin asked worriedly, glaring at Boromir's face that was peaceful, motionless… and seemed to glow slightly from the inside. ''Is he… dying?''

''In a way… but he shall com back, shortly'', Legolas replied, surpressing the jealousy and longing in his heart over this exalted state of body and soul that he had never been granted. He was not _bound_, after all.

''But why is he glowing like that?'', Pippin nagged stubbornly. ''Does it come from that weird stone he wears? I have seen it glowing earlier the same way.''

''Nay, 'tis not the Stone'', Legolas shook his head tiredly, ''the Stone is but a tool. A magic tool, if you want, but still just a tool. This comes from the inside.''

''From the inside of _what_?'', Pippin looked at the Man of Gondor suspiciously as if expecting the outbreak of some mysterious illness.

''Of his heart'', Legolas explained, ''or, to say it more rightly, of his soul. Boromir is experiencing the Joining.''

''What is that?'', Pippin frowned. ''Is it dangerous?''

'''Tis a merging of souls, that happens to Elves when they are bound to each other'', Legolas answered, ''and yes, it _can_ be dangerous for a mere mortal, but I believe Boromir is strong enough to bear it, or else Elladan would never risk such thing.''

Pippin glared at him with eyes as big and round as dinner plates.

''_Elladan_? The son of Elrond?''

Legolas sighed.

''I thought you knew. The two of you are friends, after all.''

Pippin shook his head mutely. Boromir never spoke much of himself, and when he did, it always was related to Minas Tirith somehow: to the beauty of the White City, the great perils her people had to endure, their valiant fight against the Enemy…

Legolas sighed again.

''My dear hobbit, 'tis something you have to keep to yourself. I know not the customs of _your_ people, but unlike Elves, the Men of Gondor look not kindly at such unions. Speaking of it could cause Boromir great trouble among his own people.''

''I shall tell no-one'', Pippin promised, finally finding his voice, though it sounded almost… quieky, ''not even Merry. I swear.''

''That is a wise decision'', Legolas smiled; ''one that, I am certain, Boromir will very much appreciate.''

Their talking, no matter how quiet, awoke Aragorn from his disturbed sleep. The Heir of Isildur walked over to them – and glared down at Boromir, almost frozen with shock.

''Legolas'', he choked, ''is this what I believe it is…?''

The Elf nodded.

''The Joining? Yes, it is.''

''But… is that not possible among Elves only?'', Aragorn asked.

''Obviously not'', said Legolas with a shrug, ''though it most likely would not happen without the help of the Stone. I know not how these things work when mortals are involved. Such a thing is most… unusual.''

''Legolas'', Pippin tugged the Elf's sleeve nervously, ''he is not coming back! Cannot you do something? What if he dies?''

''Nay, he dies not'', Legolas sat down next to Boromir, ''but I shall try to call him back nevertheless, for we have to set off, soon. Wake the others! 'Tis almost daytime already.''

Aragorn and Pippin obeyed and heard the Elf singing softly to the still motionless Man while the sky became more and more clear with every passing moment. When every one of the Company was awake, finally Boromir, too, came back to full consciousness, the inner glowing diminished as if the Sun would have taken cover behind thick clouds. He was fully awake now, though he seemed drained – and reborn at the same time.

'''Tis dangerous for mortal Men to participate the Joining'', Legolas commented softly, ''though I envy you for this gift to no end.''

Boromir looked at him and saw the sadness in his eyes and his heart bled for the valiant Elf, understanding that Legolas could never Join with his long-time lover, no matter how dearly they loved each other, for they were not meant for each other – not longer than the end of this quest, which also would mean the end of Elrond's days in Middle-earth.

''Have hope'', he murmured, ''your time shall come, too.''

''Not like this, it shall not'', Legolas replied; ''but let us not talk of this now, pray you. We have to leave this place, shortly.''

Finally, the full light of the morning came, and while Sam hurriedly prepared some breakfast, the Big People scouted out their closest surroundings. No signs of the Wargs were to be found, to their relief, but, strangely, they also looked in vain for the bodies of the dead. No trace of their previous fight remained but the charred trees and the arrows of Legolas lying on the hilltop. All were undamaged save one of which only the point was left.

''It is as I feared'', said Gandalf. ''These were not ordinary wolves hunting for food in the wilderness.''

''Of course they were not!'', Legolas replied, slightly irritated, while collecting his undamaged arrows. ''They were Wargs – which still explains not where their corpses have gone.''

''Does this happen with dead Wargs all the time?'', Boromir asked the Elf.

''Not with the ones _I have_ killed, it does not'', Legolas answered grimly, ''nor have I heard of such thing happening in Mirkwood ever since I have been hunting them. I told you this place was evil. Let us eat quickly and go!''

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

That day the weather changed again, becoming more pleasant, almost as if it was at the command of some power that had no longer use for snow, since they had retreated from the pass anyway, and Boromir kept wondering just what kind of evil Legolas was feeling here.

The damaged watchpost surely looked like any of the hundreds that had crowned hundreds of hilltops all over the once-proud North-kingdom and still crowned many ones in Gondor. But mayhap a vicious battle had been fought here, a long time ago, and the shadows of evil things slain back then had been trapped somehow, filled with hatred for all things still alive?

Nevertheless, the same power that nearly drowned them in snow less than a day ago, now obviously wished to have a clear light in which things that moved in the Wild could be seen from far away – to the dismay of both Aragorn and Boromir. For battle-hardened as they were, they knew all too well that such a clear weather helped more the spies of the Enemy than themselves.

After all, they had their own Wood-Elf in the Company, whose eyes were keen enough to find a way even under darkened skies.

The wind had been turning through north to north-west during the night, and now it failed. The clouds vanished southwards and the sky was opened now, high and blue, to the delight of the hobbits who had had enough of snow and cold winds and enjoyed the warmth greatly.

As they stood upon the hill-side, ready to depart, a pale sunlight gleamed over the mountain-top like a signal-fire.

''We must reach the doors of Moria before sunset'', said Gandalf, ''or I fear we shall not reach them at all.''

''Why not?'', Merry asked, his usually high spirits uncostumary low after the near-dearth in the snow and the brutal fight against the Wargs, neither of which the hobbits would have survived without the help of the Big People. ''Is it not a too far a journey for a single day? Twenty miles as the wolf runs, you have said.''

'''Tis not far'', the wizard answered, ''even though we all are weary. But our path may be winding, for here Aragorn cannot guide us.''

''I seldom walked in this country'', the Ranger added, feeling the need to explain himself, for Boromir shot him a half arrogant, half accusing look, clearly delighted that he finally _had_ proved unfit to lead them. ''I entered Moria through the Dimril Gate, on the other side of the Hithaeglir.''

''The Misty Mountains'', Legolas explained, seeing the blank look of the younger hobbits; Frodo alone was familiar with the Elven name of the mountains along their way. ''That was the Gate _I have_ crossed once, too'', he shuddered. ''Never have I thought that I would return there voluntarily.''

''No-one goes there, unless they have no other choice'', Gandalf sighed. ''Only once have I been under the west wall of Moria, and that was long ago.''

''Not so long that you would not remember your ways, I hope'', Aragorn said grimly.

The wizard shook his head.

''There it lies'', he said, pointing away south-eastwards to where the mountain's sides fell sheer into the shadows at their feet.

In the distance, a line of bare cliffs could be dimly seeen, and in their midst, taller than the rest, one great grey wall. It looked like the bullwark of some ancient fortress: huge, forbidding and invictible.

''When we left the pass I led you southwards, and not back to our starting point, as some of you may have noticed'', the wizard added.

''I _have_ noticed it'', said Legolas with a shrug, ''and 'tis well that you did so, for now we have several miles less to cross. Still, I believe that this path is the worst mistake we could have made, and I strongly advice you to reconsider.''

''Would you rather fight the Wargs again?'', Gandalf asked.

The Elf nodded, without a moment of hesitation.

''I would fight ten times against a pack of Wargs alone, ere I cross the Gates of Moria again. What ever might have happened with their bodies, at least they can be killed.''

''For how long?'', the wizard asked.

Legolas shrugged again.

''No Warg I have killed during the last three thousand years had been raised from the death again to bother me.''

''Until now'', said Gandalf.

The Elf shook his head.

''I believe not that is what happened.''

''What _do_ you believe then?'' Gandalf asked pointedly.

''I know not'', Legolas said, ''and I cannot care less. They are gone, so 'tis not my concern what – or who – has got them. Yet our way is free now, and not to one direction only.''

''That is where you are wrong'', Gandalf replied. ''We have but one way, and haste is needed. Let us go!''

Pippin stole closer to his big friend and tugged on the seam of his tunic lightly, looking up to him with wide, questioning eyes. Boromir shrugged; he had no help, nor advice to offer, being even more unaccustomed to this country than the others.

''I know not which to hope'', he said grimly; ''That Mithrandir will find what he seeks, or that coming to the cliff we shall find the gates lost for ever.''

''Why should you wish for such thing?'', Pippin asked, clearly bewildered.

''For it would, at least, save us from the horrors of Moria'', said Boromir. ''I know naught but black tales about that place; yet Legolas knows it and seems hesitant to go in there. I have come to trust his judgement.''

''And _we_ have learnt to trust Gandalf's wisdom'', Pippin countered.

Boromir sighed and tousled the curly hair of the young hobbit.

''I think not that wisdom shall help us, Master Peregrin. All choices seem ill, and to be caught between wolves and the wall the likiest chance.''

''So you, too, believe the Wargs would return?'', Pippin insisted.

''I know not, little one'', Boromir sighed. ''I only know that blood-thirsty beasts seldom leave their prey unharmed behind.''

''Unless it was their errand to chase us towards Moria in the first place'', Aragorn added glumly.

Boromir glared at him in surprise for a moment – it happened rarely that they would agree – then turned back to the wizard.

''If we are to go, then let us go, Mithrandir. Lead on!''

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Many long leagues southwards, Saruman the White stood alone, high up on the pinancle of Orthanc, where he was accustomed to watch the stars, looking down upon the valley of Isengard far below. His plans considering Elrond's fortress were shattered, but there still remained ways for him to reach his goal – some of which mayhap even Mordor was unaware of. He watched his Wargs and Orcs regroup, deep in the mines that had once been the flower garden of the valley, and a thin, cruel smile appearad on his face.

''So, you tried to lead them over Caradhras'', he murmured to the empty air that surrounded him, ''and it failed. Where will you go? Now that the mountain has defeated you, will you risk the more dangerous road?''

He shook his head, long, snow-white hair whirling around his face, and all of a sudden there was sadness in those deep, impenetrably dark eyes.

''Have you truly believed that a hobbit could contend with the will of Sauron?'', he asked softly. ''There are none who can. Against the power of Mordor there can be no victory. I have offered you the choice of aiding me willingly, my old friend. To join the side of power and strength. To belong to the ones who would rule when the world takes a change again. Alas, that you have chosen death.''

He sighed, then turned on his heel and began to descend the narrow stair of many thousand steps – the only way that led from the pinnacle to the inside of the tower.

''Moria'', he murmured on his way down. ''Right you are to fear to go into those mines. The Dwarves delved too greedily and too deep again. You know not what they awoke in the darkness of Khazad-Dúm… yet _I know_. Shadow and flame. A flame in which you shall perish.''

Here endeth this tale

* * * * * * * * * * *

Finally, it ended!

As Isabeau said, I've survived the wolfies (and a hard fight it was, indeed), managed to leave everyone in complete darkness about the fate of their corpses (including myself), and even the story has come to its end. Eleven chapters, if we count the prelude in – the longest thing I've written so far, and quite frankly, I'm proud that I managed to end it.

Nevertheless, though this particular story might be finished, the adventures of my heroes are _not_. Next, they are going to Moria, and you all know what an unpleasant place _that_ can be.

The next part, ''Descending to Darkness'', will come eventually, but it might take some time. I intend to finish ''Riddles of Doom'' first, before I stumble into a new, Dwarven-heavy tale (not to mention that I have to place some hints there), but with characters as headstrong as mine, one can never know what might happen.

Thank you for holding out with me this long. :)

Soledad


End file.
